


花弁 / Petals

by Inde



Series: Genji x Reader Arc [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arcades and Ramen Noodles, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Organized Crime, Pre-Overwatch, Shimada Drama, Yakuza, Young Genji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inde/pseuds/Inde
Summary: Strange how it works.花村 (Hanamura) —flower village花弁 (Hanabira) —petals





	1. First

It almost didn't happen.

If you didn't spend that half an hour debating whether or not it would be worth it, if you didn't consider taking the long way over the direct route. If you hadn't stalled, he might not have seen you that night. The timing would have been off.

Eventually you arrived, late and reluctant, ready to leave the moment you slid the door open. And that's exactly when he first saw you.

The others had transformed, wearing the club like a second-skin with him loosely among them in an attempt at belonging, lending his already obliquely impared consciousness to whatever drink felt strong enough. His then-company, their arms slung over his shoulders, asked in a narrowly irritated falsetto, catching how his focus had departed.  _"Are you even listening to me?"_

He was— but only until the moment you appeared, tripping his peripherals. You, leaning over the bar countertop, dying of boredom. You, the only person to resist what was offered in abundance, oblivious to the throbbing aphrodisia around you. And he was struck.

Night after night brought more of the same thrill. And that was fine, like an unwritten contract with the universe. Easy, but wearing him thin — _"Hey, are you listening?"_  They asked again, snapping him back to a face bent with a pout and the cold, slick feeling of condensation from the glass. He reassured them with a coo and a practiced closed-mouth grin, completely denied his wandering attention. "Yes, of course I am."

— But he hadn't been. Not at all. Because there you were. Something different entirely.

Strange how it works.

You had been entirely ready to retrace your steps when he approached, temporarily freeing himself from the shackle of possessive hands and perhaps able to gauge his shrinking window of opportunity. First he was a sleeve of tattoos, exposed by a black blazer thoughtfully rolled to mid-forearm. Then he was a playfully smooth voice, bending the congested room. 

"Evening."

Some few strands of hair had fallen in his face from the commotion of other bodies around him. He raked them back with his free hand, routine maintenance, while the other was occupied by an overpriced drink. You blamed the low-lights for the green dye, thinking it borderline outrageous for someone dressed as he was.

Tailored, sleek, and otherwise unapproachable.

_Who are you?_

He patiently waited as you searched yourself for some reply. Coy smile widening, holding his careful distance, he knew you were still undecided with what to make of him. 

He spoke again, the ice in his drink clinking as he gestured around. "You know, from where I was standing, it looked like you'd rather be anywhere else but here."

 _I do, or, I did._ Yet you still had not quite found your voice. The static of movement, drinks being poured and overlapping voices, all moved in waves and was all too intent on keeping you strangers. Intervention of greater forces, perhaps.

"I was just leaving..." You finally managed. It hung in the air like a question. 

He raised an eyebrow, knowingly, calling your bluff. Swirling around you in a graceful movement, his chest almost at your back, he spoke low into your ear, strictly to be heard  _of course._  "I'll walk you out."

You didn't protest. In some unfair way, if had you seen him before you might have found the desire in you to stay. Before you could pin the feeling, to explain it or otherwise, he set his still-full glass down at the counter behind him, looking to where he had previously stood. To his then-date, distracted by his other friends.

"On second thought, what if we both left?"

You looked over your shoulder.  _Is that okay?_  In his eyes. In the strange intimacy of the moment, of the sudden closeness. There must have been a hundred people around, as least, but they vanished when he asked.

Nerves, relief, or the two intertwined, responded on your behalf. "We could do that."

Seemingly harmless, as all things can appear at first glance.

Beneath his shirt, his chest surged in warm, silken laughter from more of the same, nerves or relief. Before it reduced entirely, he cleared his throat. "Then, it's settled," a brighter pause than the last, "Genji Shimada. Nice to meet you."

_Why does that sound so familiar?_

Though it was suddenly of no importance as Genji's animation consumed your attention. Freeing yourself from the swelling, pulsing club, he came alive in the night air; flushed, free as a sparrow. The breeze allowed his scent to unfold around you, to disarm you by the acute and devious precision of whatever cologne it was he had been wearing.

You introduced yourself then without fighting to be heard. He was thankful to be granted a piece of you; he would remember your name. Full of nimble consciousness, you felt his examination over your profile. The moonlight played games with you, carving his face and filling the hollows of his cheeks. His gaze became liquid amber, golden tigers eye. You had to turn away in delayed embarrassment for not noticing sooner.

Politely, he too looked away. Chin tipping up toward the sky, he spoke while navigating by the constellations overhead. "It's a coincidence, us meeting tonight."  _Ask me why?_ Unsaid, but there all the same.

So, you obliged him.

"Why's that?"

He smiled to himself, already assuming you would question him saying so before his attention flickered back. "Because— I know a place nearby I want to take you to. Are you hungry?" An indirect answer, but you could fill in the blanks easily enough.

Neon signage greets you first, then a creature in a spaceship with an exaggerated, comical expression. You slipped under the fabric divider hanging at the entrance into air warmed by boiling water and steam. The smell of egg noodles and miso tangled and knotted with his own.  _Irrashaimase! Come in, welcome! The regular for my regular?_  The chef waved enthusiastically, beckoning you to the counter, as he dipped his head in recognition.

"Rikimaru has the best ramen. Trust me."

"I'll believe it when I try it," you challenged him in mislaid doubt, passing off a look towards him as a glance at the menu. His green hair further brilliant under the shop's fluorescents and his expression further complicated by a small, sly smile.

"Ah. Good..." He added in quickly, amending, "It is wise to be skeptical." He then folded his arms as if to appear thoughtful, looking down at you through coal eyelashes and creating a bizarre moment of seriousness.

_Who are you really, Genji?_

The steaming bowls placed before you would have been emptied sooner if it hadn't been for the effortless conversation. Conversation that wound around you and let the broth go cold before you had finished. There was cyclical nature in your interactions; questions from him would pull a story from you, leaving you both snickering into your food until speech was tempted again. The silvery, light-hearted sound of his laugh became your favorite totem of the night. You began to look for signs of it, quickly defining his sense of humor all to hear him dissolve in amusement. And when you were between jokes, he dared you to hold eye-contact. His was only interrupted by languid blinking, substances from events prior meandering through his bloodstream, unhurried as they vacated his system. He flirted with clarity but expertly held himself together, centered and focused. Your voice, the very clearing of your throat, would draw his focus. Everything about you was interesting.  _What did he see? What was he looking for?_

He payed. You refused but he told you, "I'll let you. Next time."

 _Will there be a next time?_ And just as suddenly, almost panicked, _when will I see you again?_

The happiness from a full belly was mutually understood. He practically hummed as he walked back outside and down the street, through the colossal gates. Crossing through into the castle grounds, he stood straighter, taller. Night sent the daylight crowds away into clubs and ramen shops but in its rare solitude, it became his and yours.

Your feet scraped over the planks beneath you as you moved around permitter of the yard, approaching largest of the immediate structures, looming over you through it's own shadow. The immaculate finish of the wood appeared as red as oxblood. You talked all the while, as if you had known him for longer, easily keeping pace. The simultaneous fear and thrill of feeling something for someone so clearly and quickly. The sensible thing to do was get his number and to leave. Call him later after a few days of making sense of it all. But it was impossible, destined to futility. He was too devoted to what you had been saying, too invested in your voice. And you to him.

 _Just a little longer_ , you lied to yourself.

You thread into and out of the moment, trailing off and loosing your place as the breeze picked up. Petals carried from surrounding trees burst through the air as if a great plume of smoke. Restless spring. The seasons were changing and the evidence encircled you. 

Genji was spring too, you decided. Blooming, swaying. Sudden. Staring too, as he waited for you to finish your thought.

"I'm sorry... What was I saying?"

He gave you a lacquered gaze in response. Terrible and excruciating, though incredible, causing you to listen to that small voice in the back of your head once again:  _Who are you really, Genji?_

"Skeptical and forgetful... What a combination," he shrugged, trying with all he had not to smile and break the illusion of disapointment. Even knowing he was teasing, it still stung. The bite of embarrassment was sharp and quick. You pressed a hand to the slant of your forehead. Softening suddenly, he eased up, "I should be the one to apologize. I'm too caught up in the moment." The same embarrassment you felt bled into his voice. 

Then, on cue, wind played again. The petals around you lifted, scattering. Only this time, he reached out reflexively, operating on half-remembered instinct. You narrowed your eyes as he closed his hand around something and brought his closed fist to his chest. The likeness of a magician preforming a trick, he revealed an entire blossom in tact, sitting his palm.

"How did you do that...?"

He doesn't dare mention. Instead, he admires the flower for a moment or two, paper-thin and delicate. It passes his inspection and becomes an offering. "For you."

You took it from him slowly and cautiously, entertaining either pinning it to your hair or giving it back to the wind. You did neither, trying to forgive yourself out of the implied sentimentality.

"Luck," he explained slowly to the comfortable silence, "—Or fate. Whichever you prefer." Eyes molten, golden, he stood next to the ornate bell with dragons curled around it. The world felt as small as the temple grounds as pinpricks of stars overhead burned softly.

Conversation picked up again and ran in endless loops, carrying you through twilight. You were trying not to think about time. Going home meant leaving him. Going home meant thinking about the petals and his cologne, trying to remember the sound of his laugh and the exact shade of his green. Going home meant submitting yourself to temporary madness.

The dark blue bruising of night had begun to lift and broke your voices. You were both silenced by the view past Hanamura, expanding into the surrounding cities.

Recognizing at long last what you had been skirting around, Genji affirmed what you were both reluctant to mention: "It's late." 

You imagined wincing at the sound of him saying so. Or perhaps you had. Your apprehension did not go unnoticed.

He added, thoughtfully, "I didn't mean to keep you out all night."

Maybe he didn't, but you were thankful he did.

He asked how far away you lived. Your answer was ambiguous. You were decently far. You asked, wondering if you would catch the last train back. He seemed to know without looking it up, laughing disguised as coughing into his fist, "I think you're stuck here until morning. But, again, that's my fault."

Your eyes edged back to the horizon. The last ride home would have meant sacrificing your time with him. Just as you were entertaining getting a taxi, he made a point of mentioning, "I live around the corner. You can sleep with me." But the way you looked towards him in response fractured his confidence. His face stretched, he looked apologetic or mortified at his sudden lack of refinement, tripping over words. "What I meant was that you're welcome to stay at my place..."

He spluttered further, trying to explain his intentions but by then, you'd already accepted.

_Your smile will be the end of me._

Walking through the quiet streets, with Hanamura fully settled and advising you to do the same, your shoulders accidentally brushed. Neither of you pulled away and instead leaned slightly on the other. Playfully, tiredly.

He lived in a beautiful, sprawling single-story house that appeared undecided if it was built to replicate modern or traditional tastes. After swiftly unlocked the front door, he revealed an open interior in much of the same style. All rich dark wood floors and white-washed walls with tasteful furniture scattered throughout, hints of emeralds and gold. The furthest wall was almost entirely glass, one continuous window with slatted blinds from floor to ceiling. The monumental view of the world beneath hadn't yet been exhausted.

You both pulled your shoes off at the genkan, leaving them to face the door. He did the same before, straighten into his full height.

"So, a quick tour? Yes?" 

With each room flowing into the next, he lead you through the space as if it were all much less than it had been— as if each room had been bare or unfurnished, completely unfazed by what he owned. You wanted to gush about how his home could have well been clipped from a magazine but instead took to wordless, approving nods towards the abundant and lavish supply of traditional art, cleverly disguising your looks of awe with the back of your hand when you were certain he would not catch them.

He stopped before tall built-in shelves in a high-ceilinged central living area to pull out a book. "For the flower." He cradled the spine as he spoke, allowing it to fall open into his palm. An intricate illustration of a dragon, ink the same green as his hair, coiled about the paper. Your pressed the delicate thing to the page and he sealed it shut, holding it towards you with both hands.

"Please, take it with you when you go." There was a flicker of _something_ behind his eyes, but only for a second. "Don't forget."

"Oh, I couldn't..."

He wanted to laugh, wanted to explain. He wanted a great deal of things in that moment, but couldn't have any of them. Wasn't allowed. 

"You must. I already know how the story ends."

He set the book on a low table.  _Don't forget._  The way he said it. The echo of his reminder would be long with you. The air around you took its time to settle, crackling with electricity and pressure. Genji's manipulation over stillness was something you couldn't quite register or wrap your mind around. He was masterful  _but at what, the art of just existing?_

It wasn't fair that you had only just met. He struck you as someone that you wanted to know completely, someone that you wanted to understand.

"Are you like this with everyone?" You prodded, charged by skepticism again, looking for something that would allow you to tear your fascination away from him. Anything. Notches on the bedpost, childish monuments of _triumphs_. 

But he was armed and avoided your question, expertly. "I don't see anyone else here. Only you."

He watched how you observed him, accepting your soundlessness and reflection. He allowed it, patiently, an amused, soft smile hiding about the pout of his lips, as you drew your own conclusions. You were quiet, committing the previous hours to memory, pressing it all between pages in your mind.

_Where were you before tonight? I'll never know._

He stirred finally and you freed yourself from thought. 

Drifting over to the kitchen, he pulled glasses from the cupboard. You followed, watching his movements and listening to the hiss of the faucet, leaning against an island that halved the floor. The time on the chrome microwave was of little surprise to you. Dawn crept forward, beginning to streak and stain the sky. He moved around you towards the sink, the graceful sway in his movements never dulling, before placing a glass of cold water in your hand that raised in recognition towards his gesture. 

"Are you tired?"

"I'm exhausted."

He tipped his cup to yours. The glasses clinked, ceremoniously.

"Me too."

Afterward, what should have been awkward was fluid. Both broken by sleeplessness, he lead you down the long hallway to his bedroom as you communicated in glances. Light seeped into the space, dusting everything in gold. Remarkable contrast left you privately amazed; locked in conversation under the moon, silent by the rising sun. 

His jacket fell to the floor. Then his socks, one by one, creating a pile at his feet. He began lifting his shirt over his head before stopping mid-way. You looked towards him then, beginning to remove your clothing as well. His earlier horror at the insinuation of sleeping together had been reduced to a trivial thing in seconds. Your lips twisted into a half-smile, understanding all the same. You were past the debate of why neither of you would sleep on the couch for the sake of the other, having decided already. And neither of you were embarrassed about undressing because you hadn't been strangers, not since earlier that night—  _forever_  ago. Everything seemed so small in the first blush of morning. All that was left had been the last few sips of water, an  _I'm so glad you're here_ paired look and exhale, and the mattress cradling your spine.

Sleep found you before him, having ignored the full-extent of your need for rest until it were no longer possible. You rolled to your side with a gentle groan, the comforter slipping down over your shoulder as you shifted, becoming laced with the morning's gold ribbons— like everything else had been in the sunrise. The light cast bars across Genji as well, wrapping his skin with silken oblong shapes as he propped himself up by an elbow to better face you. Absently, his free hand began reaching over to you. 

He imagined, recklessly, how it would feel to swirl the tip of his finger over your arm until the numbing fever of want demanded more.

He froze, blinking slowly before adjusting the blanket and pulling his limb back, cursing the thoughts he had no right to think. 

He wished that he had known you longer. He wished he had been closer to you. And still, above anything else, he wished you had never met.

Strange how it works.


	2. Little Finger

The first few moments of consciousness were confusing. Ungraceful. You groaned, clumsily rolling onto your back. Pins and needles startled you, tiny fireworks inside your bones, shooting down your arm from having fallen asleep on it. The delayed realization, _this isn’t my bed_ and _this isn’t my apartment_ , condensed.

_I know._

Finally opening your eyes, the blue cloudless firmament tripped over itself to greet you through the slatted blinds of the windowed wall. Dazed, you blinked until your vision could adjust. The intensity of the sky suggested it was early afternoon in Hanamura.

The blanket was shelter around you. On one side of you, a wooden nightstand, hosting an ornate paper lantern and your empty water glass. At your other side and sprawling like a starfish, Genji in his full glory. All green hair disorientated and face full of pillow. You couldn’t help but feel a grin edge over you. You’d forever associate _that_ green, auroral once again in the daylight, with the feeling you had when he laughed and smiled. _His_ green. But your grin reduced as you wondered— had to, out of necessity— if he could breathe sleeping the way he was.

Once you sat up to investigate, propped up by the headboard, you witnessed his gentle, rhythmic sighing. His body shuttered with tiny movements. The comforter settled low around his waist, only covering his feet and legs. As you went to adjust it, to pull it up over him, you were surprised to feel a concentrated heat radiating from off his skin. Withdrawing after a moment, curiously allowing your hand to linger for more time than you cared to admit to, you decided not to tamper with it and leave him be.

You rose to collect your clothes from a heap near the mattress and then moved once again, wooden floor beneath your bare feet giving away to cold tile as you drifted into the bathroom. After pausing to admire the en-suite— _was there any corner of his house that wouldn’t impress you_ — you combed your fingers through your hair and splashed cold water over your face. You felt rested, looked the part too, but were all the same compelled for a coffee or tea, needing the fortifications of caffeine like a second backbone after being awake all night.

Then, like a whisper: _don’t forget._ Genji’s words surfacing from somewhere in your mind, interrupting you and briefly tricking you into thinking he was awake. Peering back into his room, you confirmed that he hadn’t stirred, only breathed louder with limbs further spread as if he could gauge from in his slumber that he had the bed to himself once more.

“Well, thanks for reminding me,” said to yourself, to the voice-clip of him that nestled in your brain.

After pulling last night’s clothes back on, you moved down and through the long, sweeping hallway into the open living space. Without Genji awake to fill the house with his presence, it felt remarkably empty. And though a part of you could register that he likely wouldn’t be offended if you helped yourself to the kettle for the desired caffeine fix, you didn’t feel like attempting it. A micro intrusion at best, but it was his personal space he invited you into, after all. Instead, drawn to the view once more, you moved to the transparent wall and pried the blinds apart at eye-level with two fingers.

Standing as close to the glass as you were, you were granted a complete view of the yard stretching between the foundation of the house to the edge of his property. A deck ran along the entire length of the exterior, jutting out with space enough for a low, square table surrounded by cushions. Trees created bursts of shade while carefully hung lanterns adorned their spreading branches. The rest of the yard was a beautifully manicured tessellation of rock and greenery with a stone path cutting through, leading back around to the front.

It was then when you caught the afternoon sun jumping off a small, reflective surface. As you squinted, one became many. Glimmering, pulling your focus. Your eyebrows threaded together, drawing your attention to the farthest side of his property, to what had been leaning towards the fence. In striking contrast to the time-honored scenery were numerous boards plastered with black and white circular targets. You had to strain your eyes further to discover their purpose.

_… Shuriken?_

The flecks of light were from throwing stars, piercing the marks with impossible precision.

You were helpless to do anything but gawk at it— all of it, the idea and the evidence. _That_ was something he failed to mention in all the hours you’d spent immersed in conversation. Never once— _“Hi, I’m Shimada Genji. I live in a big, fancy house and I could, without a doubt, blind you with this scrap of flat, pointy metal, if I wanted to!”_ It took you thinking about it critically to arrive at the understanding— _of course he wouldn’t have mentioned it. I wouldn’t reveal that to someone I just met._ You shelved the information before turning away, unable to _do_ anything with it in the meantime except recognize he was, by all counts, a deadeye.

_Don’t forget._

The book lay where he had left it. You curled up on the sofa, looking towards it on the tabletop before you.

As you sat, you began weighing out if you should leave or wait until he woke up. Of course, it wasn’t soon settled on the count of having both the urge to take off as well as the anchor in your lap that kept you sitting where you were. The internal debate in itself had become a hopeful stall. You missed the sound of his laugh already, in your minutes of awareness and solitude. _One more_ — like an addict; you scolded yourself.

_This is ridiculous. I sound ridiculous._

The verdict was enough to get you to return to your feet, pick up the book, and walk purposely towards the front door. _I should tell him I’m leaving, I don’t want to be rude._ Simultaneously, the internal counterargument,  _if you wake him to tell him, you won’t leave. You’ll start talking again. He’ll keep you here all night, charismatic bastard…._

As much as you wanted to feign ignorance to your better judgment, you found yourself back the genkan. The book nearly flopped to the ground in your surprise.

“Morning.” Enthusiastically, slipping out from a bright smile.

Genji. You hadn’t heard him at all.

“Afternoon,” you corrected him.

Infiltrating light from windows near the door favored his body and served to distract you. His arm closest to the window, the tattooed sleeve, was illuminated completely. Feathering windbars and waves of traditional irezumi, a dragon wound over his flesh. The strong limb connected to an equally strong body. Around his waist, loosely tied black-gray hakama, fitted around his shins. Still moderately disordered, the ends of his mane curled out in different directions. His eyes, turned stained glass, were honeyed once more. A sleepy laugh rumbled in his throat, halfway between a purr and an apology. “It _is_  afternoon now, isn’t it? Ah, so late... I’m sorry if you’ve been awake for long, I had not meant to sleep-in.” 

The unfair disadvantage daylight had over you, fortifying him. Everything was clearer, everything you missed about him before in exhaustion, only to be highlighted in excess. You knew it was entirely possible that your face became flushed with delayed realization crashed into you.

“Are you going?” Genji asked as if he had only just connected the notion.

A simple enough question, but hard to answer. You were going, but you didn’t want to— especially as he stood before you, unknowingly devastating. You fumbled, the intonation rising in your voice once again. “Yes?”

He laughed, speaking again with a thread of doubt. “Are you sure? You don’t sound like it…" 

“No—“

“ _No_ you’re not going, or, _no_ you’re not sure?”

 _Damn it._ “Yes!”

He wagged an eyebrow at your exasperation.

_I’m going to throw this book at you, Genji._

“I couldn’t resist. I’m sorry, it’s cruel of me...”

He kept you before the door, before the step. You wanted to mention how you had seen his target practice, how you were impressed at his precision, but it seemed unnatural to bring up as he was discussing plans. There was an arcade he wanted to take you to, of all things. He disappeared for a moment to write down his number for you on a scrap of paper. Turning it over, you were unsurprised to find it had been the stub of a ramen ticket.

He asked you to read the number back to him, as if he was nervous his printing was illegible, or as if he was suddenly new at this part of a date— always taking numbers, never offering his own. He confirmed and you took it upon yourself to politely resist pointing out the flush in his face.

"Last night was…” Pausing, searching himself for the right words, “… a first, for me.”

Relief. Somehow.

“Thanks for approaching me.” You managed before a pang of grief surrounded you; stalking you from the moment he had seen you for how it had obviously _it almost didn’t happen._

He shared the same realization and you were determined to hold eye-contact to convey— _I know, I know_ — but melted and faltered from the look you received in return. 

He wanted then to stop you from going. But wouldn't. Knew better.

You take the step down, the moment requiring you leave or else surrender, but hop back up as a knock interrupts the moment. Violent knocking. Not just knuckles, an entire fist from the sound of it.

In no time, Genji’s hand gently warned you to step back, protectively on your shoulder. You stepped into his touch, until you were at his side.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

He couldn’t answer immediately, as if what you asked required calculation or censoring. Finally, in admission, “The opposite, actually.”

More knocking. Sunlight though the surrounding windows obscured, going haywire with the impatience of the person on the other side, who had begun spewing all manner of threats.

In response, Genj’s jaw set; his lip curled in aversion. Unable to reclaim his focus, he demanded of you in an impossibly level voice, “Go back to my room.”

_And leave you here?_

He felt you tense, in silent protest. 

“Please.” Soft, still. The likeness of when he had first talked to you.

“Are you going to be okay?” You asked, backing up over your own feet. The knocking had intensified, and you could feel your heart trying to mimic it. “They sound _really_ angry.”

 _He wouldn’t dare touch me_ — but instead, “I’ll be fine.”

You did as he asked. Partially.

As Genji busied himself with the locks, you fled to hallway to return to the unmade blankets and sun-warmed mattress, 20 steps away or so. _Crawl back into bed and wait._ But could you?

Stupid curiosity fortified you. You wanted to see who it was, what it was. Pressing both palms against the corner, separating the living space from the long corridor, you poked your head out just as the door flew open watching Genji step back, narrowly avoiding being shoved by the man who came barreling in.

He stopped, still in the sunken step of the entrance, dressed formally and cleanly, but visibly undone. White button up, black narrow tie, a well-tailored suit jacket with matching dress pants. Tinted sunglasses, with no hint of eyes behind them, looked around the room behind Genji.

You pulled back momentarily, unaware if he had seen you or not, before helplessly looking again.

Gruff, he spoke with all sounds rolling together, in impatience, “Your brother is looking for you. You’re late.”

He tapped the face of an expensive watch, _tick tick tick_.

Genji pinched the bridge of his nose, looking into his palm, “So he sends  _you_ to fetch me? He can wait...”

“He’s been waiting.” 

Genji’s hand over his face sharply returned to his side, fingers curled into a fist, “He’ll wait longer.” Still finding restraint enough in him to speak calmly, if anything, to preserve the illusion for you that the situation was under control. 

“Oh, is this a bad time for you?” The man asked while removing his sunglasses, folding them and slipping them into the front pocket of his suit. He revealed a nasty vertical scar, like a claw mark, over an eyebrow. You wanted to assume some kind of familial relationship to make sense of his arrival, but there was no such reflection of it in his features. “Entertaining guests?”

Shifting under his skin. Calm was leaving him, evaporating and tested. Something darker was taking its place, “You have no business with me. I've told you that you're not welcome here.”

“Except, I don’t answer to you. So, if your brother tells me to come to your house and drag you out, I do it.” _Gladly._ Relishing authority had caused silence between the two until the man spoke again, “Should I tell him that you’re _in the middle of something?”_ Mocking. 

“Do what you must,” leaving him in a disappointed hiss, the eyes you admired narrowed.

The man shrugged, tugging at his tie as if it were too tight around his neck— _who does this punk think he’s talking to_ — unable to act on it. Words were allowed, bruises were complications.

Neither said anything for a long time after. You had assumed he would leave.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend before I go?” Though a sneer, nasty, like the scar. With that, the man pressed his boot on the wooden floor, over the step of the genkan. Not only had he had seen you, he was coming towards you. Anything else you had previous felt was quickly overshadowed by fear.

Genji’s nostrils flared at the intrusion for his blatant disrespect. His hand opened then folded again. Neater. Tighter. “You will leave my home _now_.”

The man didn’t listen. You backed down the hallway, knowing he was approaching. 

“What are you going to do, Genji? Tell on me? Think your brother will do _shit_ about it?”

“Leave. _Now_.”

The man was right before you now. A head taller than Genji, broader too. He folded down, to meet your height, pressing his palms to his thighs as he did so. He warned you, the borrowed likeness of parent speaking to a child, “You have _no idea_ what you’ve gotten yourself into.” From his pose, you could see he was missing the tip of his little finger from his left hand.

You shuttered under his scrutiny, him committing your features to memory. It was then when his eyes dropped, noticing the book in your hands…

“If you do anything to her,” Genji’s entire being was venom, “I’ll _kill_ you.”

The man returned to his full height. It was possible the threat had changed the circumstances, but no more than you had. “Relax, kid. I was only saying hello.” He returned to the door, coolly putting his sunglasses back on. Leaving with an impersonal, “See you soon,” he shut the door behind him and vanished.

Genji stayed frozen in the spot, his eyes fixated at where the man had just stood. You watched his chest rise and fall, the muscles in his arms still taut. He was ready to attack.

You were the first to move. Waiting for the flood of anger to leave his body, for him to return to him the person you knew how to talk to. You watched, gauged. When he appeared to be contained once again, you asked, “What _was_ that?”

Almost breathless, ashamed seeing the panic in your eyes up close, he replied, “Don’t worry about it.”

Everything reduced to a blur, moments of clarity focused on the wrong things: the missing finger, the scar. “I’m not sure how I feel about it,” — _Not great_ , for one. 

You braced for him to scold you for not listening but it never came. “Give me 5 minutes to get dressed. I’ll walk with you.”

You began to protest, “Really, it’s no problem. I have the book and your number. I know the train station is close.”

“No,” he sounded desperate, but rushed over himself, half being pulled towards his bedroom, half towards you. “Please, let me walk you there.”

Although he asked for 5 minutes, he only needed half that. Emerging after throwing on a plain hooded sweater and socks— not bothering to change out of the previous fitted hakama— he was ready to leave. He fixed his hair by running his hands through it, without needing a mirror to adjust it, instead going by the feel alone. 

As you shuffled through the streets together, he alternated between being a step in front of you to a step behind. Disconnected from everything, poured into the people around you. Searching. Looking. With the station approaching, you imagined he would have relaxed considering nothing had happened along the way, but found him wound up tighter than before.

“I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble...” You dipped your head in a deep, appreciative nod of recognition, which he reciprocated. Ashamed still at what had happened, telling you without having to speak.

You stumbled through saying good-bye. He seemed to look down your neck, over your shoulder, and behind you as you talked. You spoke slower, until you stopped.

His pupils had focused, zoning in on something in the distance. You went to look over your shoulder, to follow his eyes, but he wouldn’t allow it. Immobilizing you completely, you were surrounded by his arms and pulled to his chest. His entire being was rigid against you, your face pressed over the cage of his ribs. To his trembling, distressed heart.

A desperate whisper from him, “Don’t look.”

 _At what? Who?_  

Dropping his head, still holding onto you, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder. He breathed deeply to remind himself you were still there and the trembling slowed in response. His warmth, scent, and being, were comfort to you— but he alone was fear. A slow burning fear. “Call me, okay?” _When you’re safe, when you’re home. Call me so I don’t worry about you._ A deep chasm connecting what he wanted to say and what he was allowed to.

Your embrace broke, spring rushed between you. You saw him trying to be cool but struggling in multiple looks back as you become one with a sea of people. You looked for a final time, and he was lost to them. Gone.

The train ride home was uneventful, but you couldn't help but feel eyes on you. There was someone there, unnervingly dressed in the same way to the man from before. He had the same stoicism about him until he saw you looking towards him. It was then when he produced something from his pocket— tinted sunglasses.


	3. Following

The man from the train had either wanted to make himself known or he was just that bad at his job.

_Are you what Genji saw at the station?_

When your intended stop was finally announced, anticipating the pleasant auto-generated voice and chimes, you bolted for the door as it shuttered open. Off you went down the platform— _excuse me, sorry_ — between couples holding hands and people occupied with their phones, no plan formulated save for the intention of creating distance between you and them.

You stopped in a restroom to regroup, folding yourself into a pack of chattering teenagers for cover. Which was a good effort but regrettably not good enough for the practiced hunter. Impossibly, he was already waiting for you with a newspaper unfolded over his face. One of the corners of the tabloid had been creased into a dog-ear, creating the window by which you identified him. His face painted with something like: _that's the oldest trick in the book so, no, I'm not falling for it._

Your stomach dropped at the sight of him, only to mentally heave words from earlier: _“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”_

 _I think I’m beginning to have an idea._  

Instead of trying to loose your pursuer in the station again, you gravitated towards the sprawling labyrinth of streets outside. Surely you could easily reclaim anonymity in the city’s perpetual motion, loosing him and your concerns in neon flashes and dense crowds. After returning to your neighborhood, bounding up the stairs to the streets above and crossing a number of blocks and intersections, it wasn’t long before you believed you had shaken him. Had to. Several looks over your shoulder established that he was no longer been behind you.

But then, there he was, immediately  _in front_ of you. As if produced by thin air, you found him ordering street food from a vendor. He even had the audacity to wave, a pause in his professional charade before reverting back to into it.

Knowing better than to return to your apartment, being shadowed as you were, you turned into a small café to suspend the chase. An intermission. Some way for you to collect your thoughts that had become inconveniently speckled. You took extra care to not request that your order come with “ _a fucking break_ ” in exasperation.

You chose an empty table to sit at, though, deliberately facing the street so you could observe each other. You, sipping from a plastic lid and him, devouring taiyaki. Both awkwardly synchronized. _Maybe I should just go and ask him what he wants?_ You didn’t but thought about it as azuki paste narrowly missed staining his white button-down. He was messy— not that you needed additional reason to be revolted at the sight of him. _I should at least give him a napkin._

After you both had finished, you returned to the street. Absorbed in their own matters, people passed through the space between you. You debated saying something but clutched the book for reasurance and likewise held your tongue.

_Right so, round three?_

Determined, abruptly, where motive came from was debatable— the surging caffeine, maybe, or maybe it just felt like something Genji would have done _or_ encouraged you to do— you launched yourself down an alleyway behind him. Something like concern struck him for the likelihood of you charging at him, attacking, completely unaware of the getaway he had overlooked. Only after realizing you ran past him, and not at him, did he take off after you.

The sound of his boots slapping over the interlocking stone of the back lane was indication to how far behind he had fallen. You whipped around corner after corner, nearly breaking your ankles in haste and loosing all sense of direction.

You heard him, winded. Frustrated. “You can’t run forever!”

Jittering with adrenaline and far enough ahead, you grew increasingly self-assured— _If I'm lucky, I won't have to—_ until you had mistakenly backed yourself into a corner with buildings and barricades jutting out at all sides, trapping you. The only way out was back– past the man you were running from.

Flattening yourself to a wall to stay hidden, you listened to his steps slow down. “Why do they _always_ run?” In provocation, he kicked over a stack of crates. The sound of wood snapping echoed and seemingly came from everywhere.

You contemplated giving yourself away in defeat, and you maybe would have if you didn’t consider the look on Genji’s face when you saw him last. _But I’m here because of you, aren’t I?_

With a tiny metallic groan, noticable to you but not to him, a door next to you was propped open from the inside with a cinderblock. A chef stumbled out, as you assumed from his uniform, unaware of his company. It wasn’t until he began flicking his lighter while balancing a cigarette in a thin-lipped frown that he redirected his attention towards you, plastered to the wall next to him. 

 _Don’t say anything_. Your eyes widened, unable to talk as the man who had followed you began tipping over trashcans, promising to find you.

In a moment of transparency, the man with the cigarette gave you a slow, approving blink. With something like compassion, smoke spiraling out of his nostrils, he stepped out of the doorframe, allowing you to step through.

_Don’t mind if I do._

Hectic kitchen, confused staff, front door, then freedom. You went straight to your apartment afterwards, convinced your last maneuver had shaken him at long last. After fumbling with your keys, still coming down from an insistently firing nervous system, you were back home and shut the door to the world.

Tossing the book on the closest surface, the kitchen countertop as it were, you looked at it with sudden repulsion. Glazed, even partially nauseated, but you had your flight response to thank for that. Without much more thought, you picked it up again, as if it were cursed, having seen too many _suits_ since having it in your possession. You wouldn’t throw it out, it wasn’t yours to dispose of, but you didn’t want it left in the open.

So, where to put it?

The closest and most immediate vessel was your best option. You opened the fridge and chucked it in, knocking over some bottles and containers in the process. _Good enough._

Then, you entered the string of numbers in your phone from the paper Genji had given you. It rang one too many times but the call eventually went through and he answered. You heard him huffing, as if he had to climb multiple flights of steps just to reach the phone. And before he could say anything, before he could even inhale enough to speak, you had already begun talking.

"What the fuck is going on?”

You couldn’t stop the words. Not after the residual tension from your getaway and the chef’s cigarette smoke still hanging to your clothes. But he understood, fully aware he deserved it. Unfazed but far from detachment, he pressed, “first, I need you to tell me that you're safe.” 

“I am _now_ ,” you grit your teeth, sparing him from a recount. You were unwilling to mention it, to have to relive it or consider the order of events that you knew would sound made-up.

He sighed deeply in much respite, the sound dragging out in place of words. _I was worried. What took you so long?_ Then demanded, only a breath after, becoming pointed and concerned. “Tell me what happened." 

“I was followed, that's what happened.” _You already know, don’t you?_

He made a _tch_  sound, swore, and became silence like pulling petals— _I’ll tell her, I won’t tell her, I’ll tell her, and so on_. There was so much, _too much_ , happening just below your understanding.

“Are you still there?”

A voice of hesitation responded, as if he would have liked to pretend the call dropped but decided against it. "Yes.”

“What do I do?”

“ _If_ someone was following you—”

You interrupted, huffing, “oh, someone _was_ definitely following me.”

“ _If_ they were, keep your door locked and pretend you aren’t home.” Then a pause, far less adept then all the ones prior. He was genuinely unnerved. “I’m going to fix it. You have to trust me.”

The way he spoke was strange, disorder set on unveiling more of him than he would have hoped. _I seem to be constantly asking myself: who are you really, Genji? I’m never sure._

“Trust you?” A healthy dose of skepticism was justly warranted. You let out a stifled laugh, unconvinced. “I just met you! This isn’t like it's about—“ _Oh, just say it._ You felt stupid for pausing, but took in a breath. You had committed to it. “This isn’t about a _bowl of ramen_ , this is about what you’re not telling me.”

You couldn’t see him but you knew he was grinning, “I was right though, wasn’t I?”

 _Damn it, Genji. The fucking noodles._ “Sure. You were right. _Congratulations_.”

He laughed. You wanted to hate him for it, but could you?

“I’ll fix it.” He repeated and you allowed him to make you feel better, reassuring still, “I’m in the process of _fixing_  it.”

You considered asking how, but had already imagined that would lead nowhere— the alley with a dead end all over again.

“So, what do I do meantime while you "fix" this?"

You heard shuffling, a hand over the receiver. The air sliced apart beyond that. Movement, and so much so that you were doubtful he had caught what you had last said. But eventually with annoyance and pain, like a paper cut, he seethed before suggesting, “Read?”

_Click._

Dial tone.

With the phone still loosely in hand, you dropped into your seat against the back cushions of the sofa. A groan of frustration twisted out of you— for your situation, your lack of ability and his lack of answer. Of course you hadn’t been interested in reading, the book still enjoying a cool down and you needing a break from looking at it.

Kicking your feet back, adjusting your position, you shoved a pillow under your head and stared at the ceiling. Sleep, temporary alleviation of your uselessness, of existing inside means beyond your control. It wasn’t quick, but you eventually were able to— only to stir at the sound of scratching. Ticking. From in the fridge, of all places, as if the illustrated dragon were awake and free from the bindings. His long, regal claws protesting: _let me out, let me out_. 

Unsure if the delusion was a part of your dream— _you had to be sleeping still_ — you stumbled into the kitchen, willing one foot in front of the other, before opening the fridge at a distance. You found nothing remarkable except for the obvious.

Madness, a spring storm, striking you like sheet lighting. Madness, sudden and swift, the cherry blossom petals carried by the wind.

_Great. I’m losing it._

You tried Genji’s phone again. The first attempt had no answer. _Pick up, pick up._ Calling again, he answered almost immediately. “Yes?”

Hearing him again was short-lived clarity, only not enough to stay contented. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” You stumbled around rationalization. _I woke up in someone else’s life and I’m not quite sure how to handle it_ , but explaining wasn’t vital. You stared out the window, afternoon beginning to melt away.

He pulled you back, with insistence, “Tell me where you are."

You gave him your location. He affirmed that he understood, that he was already on his way. “You’ll know when I’m there.”

After the _click_ and dial tone, it was just you and the watercolor sky outside your balcony. 

 _You’ll know when I’m there_ meant something different to you in theory than what his arrival had been. You thought it meant calling when he was downstairs so that you could buzz him in. For Genji, it consisted of appearing directly outside your door with the hood of his sweater pulled up over his hair. Bloody nose, bloody knuckles.

“You look— _awful._ ” From what you could see, from his hood pulled up as it was leaving only the bottom of his face to be defined by the light of the hallway he stood in. Blood down his nose, over his lips and no hint that he had tried to wipe it away. Fresh.

“Thanks,” he spoke, the rusted taste of it on his tongue. He pulled the hood down, revealing his forehead slick with sweat from his haste to get to you, tendrils of green hair matted to his temples. Eyebrows arched in concern. 

“Are you okay?” The blood was worrying but superficial. Of course, asking had been reduced to a formality because you assumed he would avoid the truth at all costs. And you were right.

He winced, “It looks worse than it is.”

Excusing himself to the bathroom, you tried asking him about his injuries while listening to the tap go on and off in bursts. He offered, in obligation, “I took care of it. That’s all.” _Can that be enough?_ Once finished cleaning himself up, he found you sitting at the foot of your bed. His hair fixed and neat, and his face washed, leaving only the ethereal suggestion of where blood had been.

_Genji, what did you do?_

Shedding severity, he became more like the person you had seen in Hanamura. Pushing the sleeves of his sweater up, his arms vascular and stiff, he folded his body to crouch before where you sat, resting over his toes with polite ease. You wanted to recoil, to prove how upset you were, but him being close made you feel better— not worse.

“What can I do?” _I know you hate this_. You in front of him became the situation solidifying. Even if he had taken care of a part of the issue, damage was done. You were left to deal, given nothing to mitigate the chaos.

“ _What can you do?_ Be honest. That might help." 

Annoyingly, the laugh you missed most was quick to defuse you. Chirping, the sparrow in the day’s collapsing sun, “You— you’re really something.” Containing his sudden amusement, he admitted, “Even if I _could_ tell you, which I _can’t_ , you wouldn’t believe me.”

“There has to be something you can say.” _Something. Anything._

“Hmm…” He tilted his head up, eyes edging over the ceiling for answers, “Well, I talked to my brother….”

“And?” 

“And then I came here.” _Here_ curled into a reflective smile. You wanted to be upset but were somehow thankful because of how it made things appear to be manageable.

You leaned forward, to survey him, as if holding eye contact with him for long enough would pry your answers from out his grip. He didn’t show any discomfort in your closeness; the strange intimacy of being near him again, numbing reason.

“You’re missing a detail.” _One small minor detail— you looked like hell when you got here._

“I was careless.”

“Someone hurt you?”

“Tried to.” 

Silence stretched.

“So, you didn’t hurt anyone?”

He snorted, like it was equally outrageous and humorous, "Do you think I would?"

_Is it still wise to be skeptical?_

The precise, infuriating way he tipped his chin down and directed his gaze up through eyelashes. And if that alone wasn’t enough to break you, one corner of his lips turned up into a knowing smirk. 

You had to force yourself to remember: _I’m supposed to be upset._ But even then...

“Genji.”

“Hm?”

“If you won’t tell me, at least make me forget.”


	4. Forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw

With colossal implication attached to what you had asked of him, it was oddly fitting that he had murmured back: “Make you forget?” 

Still crouched before you, examining your expression with temporized focus, Genji faced how his selfishness of wanting you near and bringing you close to him was synonymous with leading you to the edge of a cold-air chasm. And as premature, dangerous, and downright reckless as it was in spite of where you stood, he allowed himself the recognition that that neither of you were willing to turn the other loose. Not just yet.

Which was… unusual. Destabilizing. 

Up until the moment of your existence, he had been blissfully convinced that he thrived in detachment and routinely sated his appetite, physical or otherwise, in outbursts of meaninglessness from causal encounters. His ego ravenous and lupine,  _on a good day_ , constantly seeking company and thrill would default by acting on whatever impulse fired. And that had been enough for him... But then you wandered unknowingly into his scope and over the course of the night as you spoke, much to his displeasure, he felt himself fixate. He wanted you in a different way than the others and  _wanting_  only readily corroded  _need_. 

He  _needed_  to keep you away from the fragile secrecy of his birthright, the criminal empire was not yours to know and he was responsible for maintaining that distance. In his sudden compulsion to tell another living-being everything about him, a frantic attempt at genuine closeness, he had left out critical information. Ambient pressure was lost; the euphoriant of closeness was strange but comforting next to the detached, fleeting feeling of awareness in meeting someone, fucking them stupid, and realizing only after that their name had not been commit to memory. 

His want for closeness dominated reason, especially when you looked at him. You had his attention.

 _Make me forget_  was carnal and sly, even if you hadn't intended for it to be.  _Make me forget_  was an opportunity he had previously searched for and condemned. Somewhere between when he conceded and when you asked, he had risen from sitting over his heels. Somewhere in that had he become hands, all too eager and intent on making you whimper, finding their way through your clothes to promise,  _I’m worth the trouble_ , in every movement.  _I’ll make it up to you. Somehow._  

Whatever kind of shock you would have felt was nullified by what his hands became occupied with in disciplined urgency. You felt the words bubble up, “This isn’t what I meant…” But even that had become debatable—  _was this what you meant?_ — although it wasn't important anymore anyway.

“Should I stop?“

_I never said that._

Eye contact proved the clairvoyant recognition in his face.  _Clearly_ , but whispered into your ear, “I won’t.” And a happy sigh.  _Don’t worry._ All of which should have felt tainted or strange if it had not been as natural as conversation. Again, bypassing convention;  _want_  corroding  _need_. The trailing warmth of his exhale, from his jaw pressed to the side of your face, was deliberate. Your skin raised in response and he only moved with more instancy before becoming frustrated with the restriction of your underwear. He helped you out of your clothes as they became necessary to remove, and you assisting gratefully. 

As he lifted his sweater over his head, he unveiled faint pink and purple bruises over his torso and arms which you knew had not been there in the morning from the chimerical reminder of him standing shirtless in the genkan, glowing in early-afternoon light. His body shuttered with pressure as you accidentally thumbed one, gauging the size. Each could have been no greater than a fist. Or, just as unforgivably, the toe of a boot. You had been previously unaware of the severity of his bodily condition, only as he fought the garment off his back and tossed it to the floor did it become apparent. He twisted back to you in his sudden twinge of pain, your accidental provoking.

He drew a breath in through a clenched jaw, wincing, before taking your face with both of his hands to gently redirect your focus. Before you could ask, “I’m fine, really.” He assured you into your collarbone—  _don’t worry right now, let me think for you—_ his teeth grazing as he spoke. One arm twisted around your side, the other wandering, becoming occupied once more to quickly and skillfully avoid cycling back into concern.

He allowed you to become used to the way he held you, offering you more of his grip if you leaned away, balance tested by the feeling. Your hips shuttered forward and back, facing each other with your knees pressed into the mattress. He broke away from your neck to check on you again.  _Is it okay?_  In his eyes, lifting his face from your neck.  _Is it okay?_ Identical concern from when he left the club with you, only now as the tips of his fingers stroked your cunt.

You nodded and his look deepened. Instead of just grazing and rubbing, testing, almost  _evilly_ , he slipped a finger inside you. His other hand slid up your back, then down, achingly tender— like you had done this with him before. Satisfaction enough in your responsive groans, one finger becoming two, he continued until could gauge that you were close. Strikingly so. You had become tense, glassy-eyed, fully-flushed, rarefied physiological beauty. Your fingernails pressed into his skin. He refused to slow his movements until you were certain that you must have scratched him to hell.

Then you felt your body's refusal to hold you upright. The _little death_ , the height of the act. He offered his chest and you accepted with involuntary shivering and a deep appreciative sigh. He brought you back to your center, but closely shadowing your immense satisfaction, greed. Wanting in excess.

“More?” He knew, but asked anyway, his fingers creeping up your spine. Face turning to yours, eyes molten all over.

 _Yes more, you fucking tease._ Butpanting softly, to a smile that curved knowingly over his lips, you replied, “I don't think I'm distracted enough…”

His smile stretched into teeth. With a roll of his head to the side, getting a better look at you, he turned you loose from his hold, “ _Mada-mada._  What can I do?” Asking as if he didn’t have  _multiple_  different preferences already for just that situation.

The question went unanswered in rhetoric. The disproportionate loss of feeling his arms around you lifted only when you saw what for. He had undone the knot keeping his hakama up. You watched them fall over his solid hips, revealing more and more, before dropping uselessly to his knees about the mattress. He adjusted then, gradually leaning back onto the bed to not be hindered or bound by the fabric— his core letting him do so without strain, again  _evilly_ — elbows propping him up, keeping him from becoming completely supine with intangible, senseless grace.

“You can do more than stare,” overtaken with impatience though quickly after, revision in his tone, “I mean—“ Impulse speaking.

Pushing past the freckle of bruising, pulsing and throbbing, he had the nerve to get hot in the face, identifying embarrassment at his lack of composure. “I know what comes next, but staring works for me too...” And as you spoke, softly, you adjusted, a knee at either side of his hips.  _Don’t smirk at me now, I’ll die._

Awfully enough, he had. And a warm laugh rumbled inside his chest as he rested fully against your comforter. His hands found you once more in familiarity, again, along with the sudden, jarring realization that you had lived every year of your life without his touch. How you would be eternally grateful to luck or fate,  _whichever you_ _preferred_ , for bringing him to you as he pressed one palm to the soft of your stomach and the other to your lower back.

Admiring his sleeve as he lay underneath you, whatever patience he had left used to detect your fascination as you studied the ink that seized his entire limb from chest to his wrist; him, quietly, never being more proud of his tattoo then in that moment. But that was only one part of him that begged your for attention— and so in your own proclivity, sliding your hands down his obliques, you drew a quick inhale from him. Without much more delay,  _he was suffering already_ , you eased yourself over his cock.

His hands flexed and twitched, sharing a look of concentration. Your mouth fell open, gradually, as he eased more of himself inside. Your hands readjusted, pressing on his abdomen, controlling as much as you could before giving in.  _Finally_. Gradually allowing you and himself more, manipulating speed and pace, he fought not getting too carried away; his strength easily overwhelming and pulling gasps. From you and him.

“I have neighbors,” Half laughing, half groaning, weakly holding a hand over your mouth.

Growling, softly, through labored breathing, “Y-yeah?”  _And?_  

 _Please try to be quieter_  in no way meant _please make it impossible for the neighbors to sleep_. He moved and collected your hand, holding your wrist captive behind your back.

Eventually, you were a mess. He expectantly slowed in anticipation.  _Not yet. Trust me._

 _Please._ Wilting to his chest, unable to hold yourself up while shivering against his torso.  _Please please please._  Unbearable then to come to an almost-halt.

 _Tch. Patience._  He assisted you, an arm around your back, to guide you to the flat of the bed, you laying where he had.  _I want this to last._

Between your legs he pressed his shins to the comforter which had become delicately matted with sweat. He leaned up over you, his tattooed arm holding his body up. His other hand lazily pumping his cock, slick, while running his lips across the underside of your jaw. 

More exhales, more sounds of his breathing. More gooseflesh. Your fingers affectionately slid over his scalp, though his soft green hair. Your voice cracked, from having almost broken it with moaning, “Genji…”

“Hm?” Dreamily, hypnotically, against your throat.

 _It's cruel. You stopping._  “You’re  _killing_  me right now.” 

“I’m fixing you.” _I’ll look after you. Trust me._  But you saying so was all it took for him to give into you. After all, truth was hard and lust was straightforward.

Night exhaled and flowed once again, comfortable silence met you after you had exhausted each other. You luxuriated in it, neither he nor you feeling compelled to talk; the afterglow being superfluous, his quiet company was enough to put things into perspective. Sinking back, tangled over each other. Magnificent, just as he was, lying in your sheets— maddening, always, in the art of existing. The rich purple sky lending it's coloring, with saturation heavily painted across your bodies.

“I saw your shuriken. The targets. All that.” You finally mentioned after the thought circled around in your head— a dog chasing its own tail. 

He peaked an eye open from his half-sleep. “Did you?” But there was no real surprise in his voice. 

“I did,” your fingers thoughtfully slid over the exposed skin of his belly, careful to avoid the bruises.

He waited for some kind of judgment, whatever burning question would eventually follow. “And?”

“ _And_ ,” you decided, “— that is by far the  _least surprising_  thing about you. So far.”

Genji stayed the night and there was no distance between you. Maybe because there wasn’t the same amount of space available, him owning a deceitfully larger bed and somehow able to take up the entire surface area. Or maybe,  _maybe_ , just because felt like it. 

You woke up warm, kicking the blankets off and waking him up with your movements. He had curled around you, loosely, but his muscles tightened in sudden awareness. And even considering his temporary shock, his was a face you could get used to seeing in the mornings. “You’re warm when you sleep, you know." Feverishly warm, your skin felt damp.

He looked like he was about to tease, but stopped himself. He stretched, arms and back, legs. Everything, in one big movement.

“It’s because I’m a Shimada.”

“And how’s that relevant?”

A cheeky smile. Too much like telling, too close to the truth. Instead of some small revelation, he sat up. His forehead touched yours, he confined the words, on the edge of saying them. The dragon, unsettled on his arm, rose. He slid a hand through your hair, sighed, and closed his eyes.

_I’ll tell you. But not now._

You prepared yourself for the day, needing a shower. “You smell fine.”  _That’s weird, Genji._  “I’m being honest.” You promised to fix up breakfast after. He asked you what was on the menu. You said whatever was fast and easy. “Fast and easy?”  _Stop, Genji._  “You set me up for that one!” 

But as you had gone to take your shower, you head heard nothing over the water. Less than ten minutes in the bathroom was all it took. He was gone in three. 

His phone went off, discarded and hiding amid his clothes that were kicked to the floor. He reached out of the bed doing everything he could to stay on the mattress, straining. Lazy. Sleepy still. Checking the caller ID, he let it go to voicemail. _It’s too early for this._ Rolling onto his side, still watching the phone, he became suddenly agitated. Then came text messages.

His gaze hardened, looking at the screen.

_> Ignoring my call will not buy you more time._

_> Be here in an hour._

_> I can only do so much._

“Thanks, brother…”

After the shower, brushing and washing in the foggy mirror, you called out to him and received no reply. Checking, making certain he wasn't there, you collected your phone and called him. 

_Hey, um, this might sound like a weird question but where are you?_

“I'm sorry. I had to go and didn't get a chance to tell you...”

“Why?”

“My _brother_.”

You flared your nostrils; for never having met him, he was leaving quite the impression on you.

Genji carried on, “I’ll only be a few hours. You should come by later.”

“I will if you tell me what was so important that you walked out on me.”

“It’s nothing.“

“Fine. I think I’ll be busy later, then,” you flatly informed him, momentarily distracted before remembering why you had originally called. “Anyways, who sleeps with someone then leaves without saying anything?”

“I don’t know but it sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” There was more of a taunt than palpable accusation, enough for you to imagine him raising an eyebrow at the phone.

You had almost done the same thing the first night. “That was different.” Somehow.

“So is this.” Anxiety swelled in his voice; water rushing to the coast, turbulent and profound, reducing, then away entirely, without a trace, stymied into silence. He hard pause dissolved, he spoke lower. “I promise I don’t want to, but I have to.”

In your shared speechlessness, you recognized a familiar commotion growing in the background on his end. He had reached the train station already.

Your voice changed, “I’ll be over later.”

The clatter of a turnstile, his shoes over the metro tile, one corner of his lips pulled up.  _Hm._ “After last night,” confidently, even if just for a moment, “I know you will be.”

And the dial tone shortly after.

_Genji, just say “bye” like a regular person._


	5. A Regular Person

Twenty-eight was an awfully young age to be in charge of a vast criminal empire.

While he had been expected to replace his father, Genji’s brother had not quite reached a suitable age where the old dogs would comfortably look to him as their leader. Even though he was referred to as “Young Master” inside the clan and bestowed the immediate loyalty of each member in the syndicate, the Elders retained their tremendous influence. If anything, their wisdom and methods became inflated and invaluable in the wake of the tragedy. Although, as much as his brother had tried to manage the legacy he was still growing into, he sought guidance-- as anyone would at the loss of their parent and leader.

And that was no place Genji was willing to volunteer his time or fleeting attention. Arcades, restaurants, clubs. There was training,  _when he felt like it_ , but even so, not as often as it was required of him. Genji relied too heavily on his inherent ability, the entitlement of knowing how to because those who came before him had perfected it with blisters and sweat. After all, the first time he had been instructed to use shurikan, he felt his blood thump around his body, ancient and knowing. He was younger then, while children his age would have been closely monitored with safety scissors, the Elders handed him blades. He threw them in threes: the first being brushed off as luck, the second in confirmation, and the third just to show off.

Faced with Genji’s reluctance, his brother had no choice than to seek the advice of the respected clan Elders, to listen too intently to their wisdom and bias. They had no reason to lie, no reason to condition him into thinking more like then. Genji often pretended to not realize hearing their words out of his mouth. 

“Our father has spoiled you.”

Genji the lotus-eater. Genji the hedonist. Sitting on his laurels, giving nothing back to his family. Born into Shimada aristocracy but unwilling to participate. He wanted nothing to do with their way of life, except for the funds and privilege, which he enjoyed immensely and recklessly.

“You are Shimada. Act like one.” The epitome of his Brother’s growing frustration—  _be more like me. Be more like our father and our father’s father._  But Genji would frequently pretend he wasn't listening, shinai nudging his brother's chest.  _Hanzo, you can’t spar and talk. I could have killed you if this hadn’t been made of bamboo._

With hardly a breath after their father’s death and mourning, the clan made vocal their demands for Genji’s cooperation. While everyone around him expected, his brother only waited.

But he would not be given the luxury of waiting any longer; restlessness among the clan had reached an apex. It was only recently, did his brother ask with something like pain in his voice— an arrow directly into Genji’s consciousness. “If you do anything for me, make it this.”  _I need to buy more time._

His brother had asked for Genji to occupy the daughter of a highly-regarded assassin while she was visiting. She lived far from Hanamura and needed company while her father traveled back from a contract. Such things would sound strange outside the family, the very idea of a hitman mundane, Genji had only been piqued by what Hanzo had meant.

_“Occupy her?”_

“Genji.” Scoldingly, always.

And he accepted, with full intention to  _occupy_  her, given the chance. The daughter had been very touchy but very appreciative of his attractiveness— though that was nothing unusual. He would have taken her back to his place after they exhausted the club to _occupy_ her senselessly, just out of spite for his brother asking, before sending her on her way so he could sleep alone.

But there you were that night. 

And there he was, then, having returned to the castle keep in the morning that yawned and shifted. It lent its pale, silken light, Illuminating dust motes about the air from generations of Shimada living, breathing, and sharing the same space. Where he should have found familiarity, he found hostile eyes. Once more he was at the mercy of the clan as he knelt before his brother who was flanked by a number of others at either side.

The folding of arms, the rusting of cotton from their traditional clothing. Black and navy that looked dark enough to be considered the same.

“I didn’t realize I was at a funeral,” Genji had said, shrinking to a spot on the floor, fractured with annoyance and torpor. The room might as well have been empty from the response— or lack thereof. The daughter was there, along with her father and his swollen knuckles, both doing nothing to subdue their animus and making Genji wish he were one with the dust.

“Genji.”  _Scoldingly, always._

His name was a plate breaking. All eyes followed.

“Hanzo,” Genji chimed in, flippant, too keen on reminding him that when they were small they would frequently tease each other— that there was more there then the room would allow.  _Good morning, brother._

His brother ignored his tone, even as the others constricted around it. Hanzo gestured with his chin. “Must you sit like that?"

If the room had been less occupied, Genji would have ignored the comment. Instead,  _tch_ , he shuffled his body so his knees and feet were pressed to the mats underneath him. 

Outside, spring was curious and playful, rustling the leaves of the trees, disturbing the gravid silence inside. Hanzo’s heart stammered inside his chest. Spine fortified by his company, those looking to him to speak, he collected his hands into fists. He looked down at the top of Genji’s head and delivered, like driving nails into a board, the practiced lecture.

And Genji had not resisted as he had before. He had chosen a single spot on the tatami before him to stare at as he listened, accepting the beating of words until he was forced to reply— but even then, in contempt, waiting until they would demand he speak.

“I accept.”

The room exchanged occult looks of victory, only about the eyes for they had tamed a wild thing...

Or, so they believed. 

 

* * *

  

Once the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers, you left for the station to return to Hanamura. You walked through the village to his house. You reached out to knock on the door but you heard a throat being cleared from behind you. Again, his talent of appearing without a sound had taken you by surprise.

“Evening,” his best recreation of the first thing he had said to you.

 _Dork._  

You missed him so much more than you thought you had, all confirmed as he registered before you. His green hair carefully pulled back. Pomade and cologne, subtle but there. White t-shirt, black jeans, contemporary wool-shelled haori the color of omega rich yolk. Handsome and disarming as ever. But his eyes were— strange. Sad. They were something you didn’t want to see in him. Something that tried to degrade him, an insult, like the bruising.

You talked and slid back into comfort. He told you he had ramen for lunch at Rikimaru. He remembered something funny you had said and laughed mid-mouthful, almost spurting broth over himself. You told him you thought that he was waiting to jump out and scare you after your shower before you had realized he wasn’t there. He warned you not to give him ideas. You laughed but squinted at him and he laughed harder than you wanted him to.

“Genji, don’t scare me like that.”  _I mean it._

“I won’t. I promise.” Still laughing, like hiccups, but agreement in his expression.

You asked then, vaguely, in trying to retain discretion, what his brother had wanted. Genji shook his head, the words scraping his throat as he replied just as vaugely, “More than he should ask.” He noticed your face change as follow-up questions rose— he was quick to shut them down with the arch of an eyebrow. That look— _if you don’t ask I don’t have to lie_.

As much as you talked and thought you learned about him, you had began to find more meaning in the sudden convulsions of silence.

He took you back into the heart of the village, purposely walking with his arm nudging your side.  _I’m glad you’re with me._  But you could not stop yourself from concern for the sparrow with clipped wings. He winced still, the tiny burst vessels were only just healing.

As you walked, you felt his attention flicker over your face. Looking to meet his eyes, you felt the futility in asking anything and stayed silent.  _I wish you would just tell me what’s going on._

As you moved still, you let your fingers  _accidently_  brush over the back of his hand. In one small movement, he accepted your palm in his. Neither of you acknowledged doing so, silently hungering for closeness. He squeezed your hand, reassuring,  _I_ _know._

The arcade he mentioned before was nestled between buildings, Rikimaru adjacent with its savory umami perfume from constant tinctures of miso. The shop had been noisy, people talking on-top of bowls clattering, surprisingly busy for it being late in the evening. You had felt Genji feign in that direction before jolting back into his path, as if he had forgotten where he was going by the ramen calling him.

Low red lights and purple tile. Screens flooded with light. An assault of neon.

“I should warn you: I’m a pro.”

“There has to be something here thing that you’re not good at.”

“Those, actually.” The crane machines. “They’re all rigged.”

You watched his eyes and how excitement came back in bursts as he won game after game. He, not so secretly, had loved the audience and showing you his name on the scoreboards; even the way you laughed and called him an idiot for signing his name after beating the other records with childish profanities— _Ass? Really? What’s it like being 12 years old again?_ — all until it closed.

He held onto a little stuffed creature, a silly lopsided looking thing you had won on your first try. Once the claw dipped into the sea of plush creatures and lifted one out, he gripped both your shoulders and all but jumped onto your back. “You’re magic.” _I’m alright._ “That was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen."

Walking back into night, you found it had cooled down and almost become uncomfortable. The koinobori above Rikimaru periodically thrashed, swimming upstream in the glittering night. You only had to suggest a shiver before he had pulled you into his chest.

“You look cold,” he supplied, as if a reason was required.

“Give me your jacket."

“Then  _I’ll_  be cold.”

You snorted before pushing your palms against his torso, breaking out of his hug. As you walked away, you felt him drape his haori over your shoulders. You thought of him, at night, warmer than a heater. As far as you were concerned, he had molten blood, a fire sleeping inside him.

 

You reached for his hand again.

Walking past the gate closing Hanamura off from the castle grounds, you turned your head over your shoulder to steal a look inside. The moon rose over the lot, peaceful and empty but the carvings before you provoked, as missing details do.

“Why dragons?”

Genji stopped walking, you did as well by extension for holding onto him still.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, they’re everywhere. They're all over this place, every surface.”  _And you._

He grinned into the back of his hand, confidentially. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!” You answered with more enthusiasm then you would have preferred.

 _Hm._  Cocking his head, he questioned you again. “How badly?”

“Really, really badly.” You played along, blinking innocently and clasping your hands together.

There was a fleeting look about his eyes, as if he had just stolen something. They grew round and full. He turned into the grounds, bringing you with him. You move away from where you had gone in your first visit and you walk under the tori, confronted by trees and their canopy of pink. Branches billow, petals talk. Tall stone lanterns light a path to the castle, tiles in the ground uneven and broken by grass and moss.

Pausing beneath the giant, the tallest and most elaborate building of the complex, you stared up at the keep. The stone surfaces made smooth from centuries of wind and rain, the wooden walls lacquered and white. He and you removed your shoes. Your soles crossed the tatami inside, met by the dry, earthy smell of tinder and the whisper of incense lingering. You felt importance swirling electrically in the air.

“You don’t come to Hanamura often, do you?” Genji's voice came from behind you. He had walked side-by-side with you up until the bridge that surged into the main chamber before he let you go ahead. 

“No, I don’t…” You weren’t sure of an appropriate volume feeling sound was an intrusion in such a sacred space and took to a low voice. 

“This is Shimada Castle.” 

You turned around to the sudden, stiff awareness that he was further away from you than you thought. Still, his smile was almost bashful. 

“It’s home.” 

You think to the first night you met and how he had brought you here.  _Why didn’t you tell me then?_

But he proved to know you well enough to assume that’s the very next thing on the tip of your tongue.

“I didn’t think it was necessary to mention to you before.”

“This is...” You trailed out, only to look to the rafters and imagine how much time and effort it had taken to get all the pieces locked in place; you get caught in a history that’s begun to assume itself. “… This is  _kind_   _of_  necessary.” You stop running your eyes over it, adding for emphasis, “Genji. Look at this place...”

“Yeah, I’m looking...” Bitter, considering earlier that day. For all he would tell you, there was still too much he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“It’s necessary.”

“Well, you know now."

You understood then why his own home is so ordinary through his eyes. You understood how he was able to downplay where and how he lived- his lavish home was truly an afterthought in comparison- considering what he was used to. You imagined further that his childhood was cast in gold; how he must have grown up in beautiful, expensive clothing, given the finest of everything...

He advanced, studying where your eyes were drawn and following your focus. As he came up to your side, with his haori still draped over you and his arm exposed, you pointed up to the green dragon. The gigantic painting was painfully identical to his tattoo. “That’s you." You cast a small look over your shoulder towards his face and the look he was fighting to repress. "It has to be, in some way."

“I suppose that's true.”

“So, the blue one?”

“Hanzo.”

“Your brother?”

“Sure.” Again, softly. Softer.

But you didn’t like  _sure_ , impartial to the taste of it. _Sure_  was too much like impassive  _maybe_ , like dodging the question. You pressed further. “Why dragons though?”

The gate, the bell- the family crest that was imprinted on every surface of the twins, chasing the other’s tail.

“Life and death... Everything moves like this...” His pointer finger drew an imaginary circle in the air to demonstrate, you imagined the produced shape as he did so.

“But, why dragons  _specifically_? What do they symbolize? Why not anything else?”

“Well, they’ve always been important to  _us_. That's about all I can say.” His cheeks twitched before a slow, deep exhale. “Shimada have always spoke of their legends. Always.”

You felt guilt snap at your stomach for having sealed the book away in his fridge, as if the dragon's were suddenly judging your decision. You remembered when he had suggested for you to read and you arrived at the delayed conclusion that it might have been useful. You talked yourself out of apologizing if only to save yourself from the explanation.

Peering at him from the corner of your eye, your face remaining square to the altar ahead, you asked. “What’s their story? The ones on the mural—  _theirs."_

“Those dragons are brothers,” with watered-down reluctance, not for having to say so but for the words of the legend itself. He eased up, his spine-shifting as he pressed his shoulder, before guiding your attention again with a finger. "That one— that's the Dragon of the North Wind. And that one— the South.”

“Did the Dragon of the South Wind also send  _suits_  after his brother?”

His laugh disturbed the sacred silence- rather, _the_  only laugh that had come to matter to you. Lately. “No. Well, perhaps he might have... But that's not mentioned in the legend! Those dragons were said to have upheld balance and harmony.” His fingers raised in air quotations, framing his face and the very words as the left his lips—  _so the story says_.

“And is that the entire story?” You asked, knowing there was more.

“Sure.” You looked unimpressed. He appraised the look you gave him before giving you one of his own in return, another half-smile sprawling across his pouted lips. “Alright, well, that's not exactly the truth. The truth is complicated. Things change—“

“That usually means there's conflict.”

"There is." He affirmed with a nod.

"Do they fight?"

He nodded again, slower, pressuring an audible sigh from deep in his chest. “They do.”

You turned back towards the mural, studying the scales as they ran over each-other in the warm light of the lanterns. Something in you was compelled to ask then, thinking it and having it immediately translated into words. “Do they ever forgive each other?”

You felt guilty for asking first, all facial cues of his emotion evaporated as he pulled into himself, becoming uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, he affirmed, his thoughtful gaze sliding over the graceful creatures. “Eventually.” And with that, his seriousness dissolved into a wry, secretive smile. “Ah, but it’s all just a story...”

You both sat where you had been standing, right in-front of the altar, as if he was inviting you to take it in and process it, giving you as much time as you wanted _or_ needed to make sense of it. You leaned your head- full of legends and time and heavy because of it- against his shoulder, fitting easily into his side; he dropped the side of his face against your hair. You heard his heart speed up in your closeness, thumping in your ear. You stayed for a while longer, speaking to each-other in low whispers while the cicadas sang from outside in the trees, distracted enough by the other to not realize you were being watched.


	6. Darling

Speaking about honesty as if it were a badly-timed joke, you finally allowed for your voice to come back up and shocked the docile night with a sound above a whisper. “Is there anything else you want to tell me while we’re at it?”

 _Any more surprises?_   _I’m not sure how you would top that. Summon a dragon, maybe…_

The tatami absorbed the sounds of your footsteps as you retraced your path, collected your shoes, and walked back out into the evening. You shivered into the borrowed haori, thankful for the swathe of the wool, unsure how he was able to combat the wind without showing the slightest bit of discomfort. Even the nodding grass must have been cold for how it rushed and huddled together underfoot.

A thoughtful pause captivated him, your question forcing him to come up with a meaningful reply. 

_I was born into a very powerful and dangerous family. I’ve agreed to do terrible things on their behalf. I stood up the daughter of an assassin the night we met and her father beat the shit out of me; he might have killed me if Hanzo hadn’t intervened. I bled all over his yukata but he deserved it for not stopping it before the blows to my face. More? I take up the whole bed at night because I’m selfish. I’m terrified of you knowing me, but terrified of you leaving me. How about: I’ve never loved anyone, I never let myself._

Genji breathed, his words taking on a vibration of their own like plucking a solo harp string.

“... I’m a ninja.” 

The words stretched into silence. He took a sharp inhale as if he had been winded, but only mildly in consideration. In time, he would learn the cost of mentioning it—everything had a price.

You scoffed, your most immediate reaction to the absurd statement. “A  _ninja_? You’re just messing with me now, aren’t you?” Walking, shoulder to shoulder through the courtyard, you turned your head towards him, to watch him only shrug your disbelief away. And because he had not laughed after, or even remotely hinted at a grin, you became wary of what he said.  _A ninja? Not possible._  You hunted for a tell but found nothing in his practiced calm. He reassuringly brushed his arm over yours, being that he was listening but without a proper reply.

 _You’re not really._  The silent echo, cutting through midnight’s stillness, suddenly aware of the phantoms of the castle like a mesmerizing special effect, all produced and fantastic. There was no way for you to be sure either way.  _Are you?_

Patches of shadows coalesced over the ground, over him and you. Glossy evening light from the dreamy cloudless night sky sliced through the dark, the rich likeness of walking through a painting or picture with pink splatter marks suspended, all of time stuck. You looked to him once again. His face was unevenly halved, the line where shadow dissolved claimed territory down his nose. He stopped then, because you had stopped too. A sick, sudden unfair realization, like additional gravity, urged you to pause where you stood. 

Genji was no stranger, that much you were certain, but you did not know him nearly as well as you thought you had. You felt a pulsing ache buried under your attraction to him, a grotesque level of sureness—  _he’s not good for you_ —  that you had been running from. Seasons would change; the trees would become bare, snow would veil the grounds, and he would still keep secrets from you.

But as long as you could keep your head above the surface, you would ignore what was below, lapping tenderly around your ankles. And he knew. Somehow, he understood that it was all too evident.  _It isn’t fair. I know._  The air between you pounded with things that could not be said. 

His bottom lip dropped open to expose the slightest of his teeth, as if he were on the fringe of speech. The halo of silvery moonlight in his eyes between slow, knowing blinks. And then all in one motion— his palms cupped your face and with misplaced urgency, he kissed you.

Every thought paused, uselessly suspended in their mid-air leap. Whether he meant to or not, your mind sputtered into thoughtlessness. Your entire existence, overwhelmed, before you could make sense of what had stolen you away. Comfort. Satisfaction. Episodic wants corroding needs, reintroducing parasitic lust just as your mind began entertaining now-useless logic and reason. 

You shut your eyes and gave into him.

He pulled away, irritatingly premature, only to find that his face had become as flushed as the saturated petals. You hated how much you adored him, detested entirely that nothing beyond him existed in that moment. He began croaking an apology, soft but sincere, as you lamented the loss of the warmth of his palms.

“I wanted to do that the very first night but—“ 

You silenced him with another kiss. Needed to. Had to. It was that or risk feeling torn apart, your consciousness stirring again with her  _knowing better_. You took to self-indulgence, his lips again, and allowed him to pull you closer. 

The black, calm water rose over your head once again. Deeper and deeper.

Instead of going inside once you had reached his house, he lead you around to the back. The lanterns in the trees were glowing faintly, grenadine fireflies, lending just enough brilliance to detail the yard. The scarring of bark on timeworn trunks, swaying red camellias and feathery peonies. Genji moved to the targets by the fence, weaving through them. Once he returned, he had collected three blades between his fingers. The shuriken were as elegant as they were sharp; even with his unspoken mastery, you feared for the thin tissue of his hands.

“Here’s your proof,” he said with his brow bending, overly. Theatrically.

In one movement, polished with staggering dexterity, he cast three stars out in a fan. The gentle crack from force was nearly instantaneous as he hit 3 targets in quick succession. He blew over his knuckles and polished his chest. Turning on his heel, his eyes mischievous and full, he greedily drank in your incredulousness with the slow curve of his growing smirk.  _I told you, Ninja._

“So, you can do  _that a_ nd still consider my crane game skills at 16-Bit Hero impressive?”

With all quiet authenticity and an ever-growing smirk, he gave a sincere nod.

You wished you could deny how strongly you felt for him in that moment by how ridiculous your situation was. Green-haired, grinning. Sudden and swift like spring.

Ninja, apparently.

“Can you do it again?”

He spoke, cooly. “Of course.” 

 _That and more—_  which was not said, but there regardless.

He kept you outside with him for a while longer. You asked all kinds of questions about the throwing stars but he became less and less enthusiastic to share, instead, turning his focus and gaze on you. Less talking, more looking. Eyes amber, observing your face and lips, hand tucking hair behind your ear,  _uh-huh_  and  _hm_ , rumbling in his chest from purring and heart hammering. The warmth of his skin. Delicious, unfortunately. 

You could still taste him on your lips.

You eventually returned to his room, the temperature outside dropping and and getting the best of you. It was there where clothing became unnecessary, as did the space between your bodies.  _I need you. I need you too._  He denied with everything he had that you should worry, that he would be clumsy with you, that he would hurt you. His fingertips were gentle but his grip was firm. In every prurient movement, pressing and pulling, fucking you until you wanted to cry— the silent brutality of loving a wild thing inside every groan and kiss.

You fell asleep, eventually, tangled over the other and hearts pounding out of rhythm. Desynchronized. Ignoring the growing rift, turning a blind eye to the beginning of the end—  _we’ll make it through this. We have to._

The next morning, upon waking, you expected rhapsodic blue to pour in through the blinds but found grey in its place. The promise of rain, if it hadn’t already, but if not then soon. The bed was empty too but you heard movement from down the hallway. You took your time stretching and dressing, sleepily, before wandering out to see him.

Genji, being half-dressed, untouched by the gloom from outside— lighting up to see you awake. White button-down open, skinny silk tie hanging loosely around his neck. You eyed him first, wary of the uniform—  _suits Genji, you’re dressed like them_ — until that was cast aside as useless sound. The way the shirt swished as he moved, inviting your stare, was more important. 

Somehow.

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He left the stovetop unattended to greet you properly, the warmth from sleep still all over him. The stuffed creature from the crane game occupied the table and sat next to freshly picked red camellia’s with dew clinging to their vivid petals. You felt the uncomfortable shuffling of thoughts by your not so secret delight for the thoughtful gesture and attempted to speak but found it hard. He kept his back to you as he finished cooking and plating, delaying the realization that he had only made enough for one.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No. I’ll get ramen later.“

He nuzzled your free hand as you ate, his soft lips pressing over your knuckles, tender enough to fool you into forgetting how long he had known you. You were all too aware that had it been anyone else, you wouldn’t have been comfortable with the affection. It would have felt strange, forced. But Genji…

He needed it.

You retrieved your hand from his grasp, only to press it to his forehead. He held still in turn, obediently, looking up to his eyebrows. He was warm, but no warmer than usual.

“Are you okay? Do you feel sick?” 

_You seem strange. Again._

“I’m fine," he lied.

You wanted to coax details out but found the sleeplessness about his face and decided not to. Instead, you finished eating and volunteered to do dishes, even though he refused. Insisting once more, the clock confirming for him, you stayed in the kitchen as he rushed to finish grooming and dressing. Once the sink was cleared, you went to find him. He had been standing in his bathroom, fussing over his tie before the mirror. You watched as his jaw set, swearing under his breath before he looked up and caught you staring at him in the glass. His reflection met you and you feel your knees want to give out. You imagined everything you would rather do with your day— primarily going back to bed, replaying last night. There was a moment, albeit brief, finding matched desire in his eyes too, further proved by a faded smirk, but he lost enthusiasm and turned around to face you.

You told him that you would leave right away so he won’t be late, deciding that offering to help him with his tie would just get you close enough to him to start trouble. He nodded and explained, his tone thick with reluctance, that he would likely be out for most of the day. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

You already suspected that it had something to do with his brother. Along with that, you knew there was nothing you could do about it.

You turned to leave but he called you back. You hovered in the doorway as he pulled a hand through his hair, habitually. Whatever he was going to say was mauled by a clumsy, ambiguous sentiment.

“Be safe, okay?” 

"I will. You too.”

The swelling of people, the public of Hanamura opening their shops and stalls, all trying to convince you everything was normal.

You got back on the train to return to your apartment and were hardly paying attention as people shuffled seats around you, absently taking in the environmental textures. Vinyl crackling of raincoats, a chorus of throats clearing. Faces illuminated by phone screens. Outside, thick clouds massing in the grey smoke of the sky. A swirl of people, nature itself included, too caught up in their own details to give you a second look. 

“So, how much do you know?“

There was a soft grunt from beside you from a man who had boarded the train a few stops back. His leather dress shoes squeaked over the floor as he shuffled in his seat. 

“Excuse me?” You asked before it registered.

_Oh God, you again._

It was man from Genji’s house. You had not noticed him in your peripherals because of the duffle jacket, camel, expensive looking, coving the suit he wore underneath. He blended in, looking the part of respectable citizen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You mumbled, looking without turning to face him. From the corner of your eye you saw his hands resting over his knees; his little finger produced a vivid flashback of the hallway and Genji’s threat. “You were obviously following me, so what’s this all about?”

“That’s not how this works.” His comfort only increased your discomfort as he folded one leg over the other and leaned back. You could faintly catch the smell of cigarettes and aftershave, even though he didn’t appear freshly shaven, as he moved about. Though his scent alone wasn’t threatening, with the awareness of who it was attached, you resisted breathing deeply. "You answer my questions first, _outsider_."

You focused on the sound of the train over the rail. You focused the people sitting in front of you, thumbing uselessly over news articles or social media feeds. You did everything you could to not to think about how intensely your heart was pounding. “I’m going to tell Genji about this.”

He laughed to himself, gruffly. "I hope you do.”

You faked indifference but you could feel the involuntary tensing of your entire being. You turned to look as if the sound had demanded you to, close enough to see the nasty scar though his eyebrow again.

“I want you to think very carefully before you answer me.” He pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose with a finger. “It’s important. For both of your sakes."

You tried to place him at Shimada Castle. You tried searching your memory as if the moment had been pliable and if you could think back hard enough you would see him there. But his eyes.

“He told me a legend about two dragon brothers,” you finally volunteered.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Claw appeared to be weighing out his options, shifting his legs again, nostrils twitching. He pushed his sunglasses back up over his eyes and let a hand rest over his mouth.

Feeling the train slow down and your stop approaching, you asked as calmly as you could. “So, are you going to follow me?”

“Only if you come back to Hanamura," from behind the darkened lenses, his eyes widened, "— _darling_.”

You nearly leapt out of your skin as you fled the train.

You looked over your shoulder the entire way home, purposely taking the long way and tearing through tight-knit groups just in case. You felt the excess of adrenaline again, trying to make sense of what Claw had meant.  _How did he know? Did he see? Did it matter?_

Calling Genji proved to be unsuccessful. You attempted twice before giving up and sending him a text message in your haste to get in contact.

_> We need to talk._

_He’s busy. He said he would be._

It was an impossible chore to be calm, it meant resisting checking your phone every minute that passed. It meant, regardless of what you had planned to do or what you did, that your thoughts were never truly anchored and slipped away.

_He’ll answer me soon._

But  _soon_  wasn't soon enough. S _oon_  became the next day.


	7. Soon

_Soon_ , the cousin of maybe, comparable in all ways. Equally as unsettling, a blank space where a word of precision should be.

 _Soon_. A day later, in speckled sleep and a nebulous haze of morning, the sliding door to the balcony had been left propped open for the damp company of spring air. It had rained all night. 

You removed yourself from watching the clock just long enough to entertain unsettling dreams of  _Claw_ and shuriken, your subconscious frenetically working on establishing some underscoring connection or theme between them. The phone had been in hand as you settled in your bed but became lost to the comforter and so necessitated a desperate pat-down, hands flying over the quilt in your search as it began ringing, holding you hostage in sudden awareness.

“I’m sorry," Genji said. And said with a finality, like he was saying goodbye.

Even with beguiling thrill that came with hearing him, the artificial contact your phone would establish, words rushed like vomit from being made to linger on his _soon_. _“_ You're sorry? Sorry? _What the f—“_

“I know." Firm, rigid. "It wasn’t supposed to take this long. I’m so sorry.”

Any other couple would have filled the gap with pet names and sighing— _oh honey I was so worried, absolutely devastated_ — the shrill, transatlantic mimic of old, monochrome movies. The place inside you that should have housed that impulse, overriding concern for his wellbeing, was raw and stinging. It was as if someone had come along before you were to deliver the line and slapped you across the face. _I was so worried_ might have been a thing you could have said if he had called you hours ago, in the night, as you pointlessly tread from living room to kitchen and back, a cooking show spitting and sizzling on TV as inane background noise to drown the silence. The audible _tick tick tick_ of the hours taking their sweet time, you discovered, was the direct anthem of _soon_.

“What wasn’t supposed to take long? What were you doing anyway? Where were you?” Demands, all of them, in various shades and tones.

You received silence.

_You know you can’t ask me that._

You brought up the one thing that would make him talk, the one thing that made speaking to him so urgent in the first place: “Your brother’s  _friend_  was on the train with me yesterday.”

He punched something, from the sound of it, though there was no way to verify. You remembered the exact tone Genji had used when you had first met Claw. _“I’ll kill you.”_

Knowing he was still on the line, you wanted him to confirm that he was still listening, “Genji?”

After half a minute, defusing, he gave his best impression of himself. “Yes?”

“We were being watched, by him or somebody else. He knew we went to Shimada Castle and he wanted to know what you told me.”

Mathematical silence, full of bad probability. You continued.

"He warned me not to come back to Hanamura...”

Click. Dial tone.

You considered, for the brief time afterward, if you had it in you to never see him again. His habitual and terrible custom of hanging up without saying good-bye was officially past a pardonable offense. You furiously tried calling back, deciding stiffly that you didn’t have to be above anything— _what, get a medal for willpower?_ — to no avail.

Day called to you from below in the streets, distant honking and the like; reminding you that he had once again left you alone. The closest living souls, behind the surrounding walls of concrete, were no consolation for him; you sat isolated in your box.

He called you back a few minutes later.

You held off answering but were only too aware that not picking up would hurt you more than him. What good was a self-inflicted wound?

“I’m sorry.” For the second time today, he said as you picked up.

But you were past it. The sample of loneliness prior turned you silent. It was your turn to say nothing.

“My brother swears he didn’t send him—”

“Well, that doesn't change the fact that he was there, sitting right next to me.”

“He’s asking for it.” You could hear him breathing in little frustrated gasps. "He should already know to leave you alone. He knows the trouble he's stirring..."

He always fought himself to be calm, but something in him refused.  _You’re not built for tranquility. Not now, young one._  His soul was a gentle calamity at his age, wrapped up in misfiring nerves. Impulse and denial, working hand-in-hand; the combination ripe for self-destruction. Complete lunacy. And God, how it only made you aware of how badly you missed him.

He was short and clipped for the rest of the tense conversation.

“I want you to stay away from Hanamura." His voice burned with silent rage.  "For now, at least.”

 

* * *

 

Avoiding Hanamura did not mean solitary confinement, it meant adaptation.

_> I’m thinking about you._

_> I need to see you._

_> Tonight?_

Things carried out in this way for a while. You had a new normal where every few nights he would come to your apartment. At first, he was able to be conversational and laugh, stay awake with you to watch TV or play console games, liberally supplying his warmth and touch. In the mornings, you would go out for breakfast or walk around the urban parks, skyscrapers broken down by their organic counterparts, enjoying the last of spring as summer prepared.

During one trip to a favourite park, bluebells sighing along a tailored stone path, Genji had been temporarily energized by someone walking their dogs. He sat over his heels and let the wet, black noses sniff his hands and chest. He looked up to you while the dogs licked at him, a rare smile pulling at his face. “Maybe we could get pets one day?” Said of course before a heart-wrenching silence because you both had understood, for two different reasons, why it would not happen.

As spring began to fade, so did he. 

He would come, exhausted, tie disheveled, buttons undone, eyes wild. He was less interested in joking and talking, hardly the energy to knock.  _It_  took it out of him—  _it_ , the things he would not say and the things you deserved to know for committing yourself to him. You’d open the door and he would slip into your arms and you would accept the slow anguish of not knowing all over if it meant keeping him together for another night.

But he began visiting less as he started having nightmares that cut into both his and your sleep. You could feel him radiate all kinds of emotions that he wouldn’t talk about. Couldn’t. There were black half-circles under his eyes. He was zapped of his humor, of his wit and charm. _It_ left him in a haze.

“What can I do?" You asked, repeatedly, taking too much of his exhaustion personally when reality would assure you that your presence was the only thing that helped. "Tell me and I’ll do it.”

A crushing try at _the_ smile, his smile. Half choked, wrenching: “Kiss me.”

You both felt the pain of his silence.

Yet you tried, desperately, to relieve him. Pulling his head into your lap, stroking his soft hair, comforting him.  _I’m here._ _I’m not going anywhere._ Him, weakly gripping onto you, apologizing for everything in the way he looked up at you with eyes that had seen too much. 

After the almost complete passage of a season since _Claw_ had warned you about watching you come to Hanamura, and absence of seeing him— _five nights in a row? six?_ — you dared asking the forbidden question.

“Can I come see you tonight?”

With the phone cradled to your face, you asked as you walked home from running errands. 

“ _Here?_ ” As if you had told him you were going to be shuttled into space. “We shouldn't risk it…”

Impatiently, you huffed out, "I’m not afraid of him.”

Though you were— with good reason.

Genji’s audible swallow filled the line; whatever words he wanted to say forced back down.

“Tonight isn’t a good time—“ 

“Then when? When can things go back to the way they were?” 

Silence. No answer for that, but room enough for your executive decision.

“I’m coming to Hanamura. Tonight.” 

After what felt like the longest train ride of your life, spending the duration of the trip sitting in the corner while staring at every passenger with intent, you stepped outside the station. The air tasted different from time passing, and you were unsure if that was a good or bad thing. Unforgivable, at it’s rotten core; you didn’t know what you were up against, still, only studied the outlines that consistently redefined themselves.  _Dragons, ninja, Shimada Castle…_ Nauseating proof that assured you that there was something else to be worried about. Something bigger, something terrible. Something you refused to put any faith in, even as he suggested it himself in every meeting and parting. 

You could feel in your marrow that you shouldn't have been there, that he wasn't any good for you and yet, the moment you saw him, it all seemed less important.

Leaning against the old, umber brick outside the turnstile stood your favorite liar. It had been an imagined-forever since you had seen him wear anything other then variations of the clean black suit, the uniform of _Claw_ and _Taiyaki_. Tonight, refreshingly, he wore jeans with strategic rips, military boots idly laced, charcoal grey jumper with the sleeves rolled up— well, one sleeve. Partially incognito, his tattoo covered and slouched beanie covering all but a few wisps of his brilliant green hair.

The tense expression of his resting face broke, momentarily, seeing you emerge. His eyebrows bent under the strain of your phone conversation, fresh in his mind. They bent still under the exchange with his brother and knowing that _Claw_ was a variable that could not be controlled. He moved to meet you.

“They won’t know I’m here yet,” not needing a voice above a whisper for how he scooped you into him, devious pulse point cologne application again, you assured him into his jugular. It was easy to forget he was real when he came and went at strange hours and refused to exist for days at a time. "You didn't have to meet me at the station."

 _I couldn’t chance it._ Not said, there regardless.

The night restricted itself in a controlled dark; the streets cleared themselves save for the odd cluster of people. He was stiff and tired on the surface, but somehow, underneath, a comprehensible version of relief.

“Long day?” You spoke over his throat still for how tightly he held onto you, clear that he had not wanted to let go.

He rumbled in agreement, _mh-hmm_ , which was nothing short of a subdued shockwave of vibration in proximity.

“Hungry?” 

Finally turning you loose, he shook his head before collecting you into his side to shield you from the prospect of scrutiny. Your palm closest to him became trapped in his own. All of this, protectively, no matter how feeble the gesture would be if you were being watched.

_Bullshit. Your appetite for Rikimura is the only sure thing left in this miserable place._

“Not even for ramen?”

A sigh, breaking into a weak, sad smile, knowing what you had meant and the reaction he could not give you.  _No, not even for ramen._ But infinitely worse still, was the suggestion of what his eyes had indicating. _I love you for trying._

“What's happened to you?” Finally asked, though scarcely above a murmur and lost to the night.

Back at his house, everything was misleadingly as it had been the first time you saw it, save that it felt empty. There was a thin layer of dust on the built-in shelves, considering he had not been around much recently so things like the books were neglected and brooding. You tried easing into conversation, but with so much off limits, talking was bizarre and fizzled out. You both looked to each other for _something_ , but were only confronted by all you were avoiding. Even then, neither of you wanted to turn away. Loyalty to the other, like a quiet obsession.

“There's something I need to tell you—”

_Shit._

“I think I—“

_He’s going to say it._

“I—“

_He’s going to make me say it, too._

Genji's struggle to speak broke into a wide smile— the exact kind you had missed so terribly. Unusually motivated, his hands tugged at your clothes as his lips found your neck to give you the gentlest of bites, borderline desperate to avoid saying what he should have. 

_I love you too, asshole._

You yelped, a pathetic sound, for his suddenly aggressive shift. His tongue eased where the teeth had marked. You were starved for his hands regardless. 

You both pulled clothes off the other until there was nothing left to take off. He led you to the sofa and you, taking initiative then, folded over the back with a slow arch, presenting your ass in the air for his immediate shameless approval. You felt your calves tighten as his hands greedily pulled your hips back. 

“I’ve missed you… So much…” Said between breathless panting, as he fucked you from behind. Little _ah’s_ and _mh’s_.

Your voice, as you began to reply, tore away into a gasp; his hand had reached around, between your legs, pressing in small, tight circles. Whatever he had done previously, whatever _it_ was, pardoned temporarily. You couldn't bring yourself to think of anything besides the intense, burning need to come undone for him.

After exhausting each other along with the novelty of the sofa, you relocated to his bedroom in a worn out heap, breathing noisily while coming back down from the high you chased. A droplet of sweat ran down your spine and signaled your brain to itch, but you had been rendered too tired to do anything about it and let the sensation wear itself out.

“That was—,“ you started, stopping yourself.

You could hear the smirk rising inside his voice as he supplied. “Necessary?" 

Invoking flashbacks of Shimada Castle, how all you could say was _necessary_ ; you picked up a pillow, weakly smacking his chest for the tease. Even in his state, he laughed and in that moment, you felt that you had him back. You dropped the pillow and threw your arms around him. Relishing the damp heat of you skin, he held you closely with his face nuzzled under your chin.

You imagined the dragon mural at the castle. _“Everything moves like this.”_ His voice came back in your head, unavoidable.  _“Don’t forget.”_

Like when he had explained his family’s emblem and drew the circle in the air, so had you then traced the shape over his skin, sleepily, meandering until all movement stopped. The lethal combination of the exertion and his heat had you drifting off, wondering without answer, _what phase are we in? Beginning, end, beginning, end…?_  

You woke up in the small hours of the night, to an empty bed.

After stumbling to the bathroom, relieving yourself and washing your hands, you crept back into the bedroom. Having left your clothes strung out on the floor by the sofa, you tugged the sheet free and pulled it around yourself like a cape. That had not been for the sake of indecency, Genji shamelessly obsessed with your body, undressed or otherwise, but for the fact that you had began distinguishing sound. Multiple voices.

Moving into the hallway, the tails of the sheet languorously dragging behind you, the voices grew louder though no less muffled. 

“Genji?” You weakly called out, your voice still creased with sleep.

No reply.

Into the kitchen you went, searching for signs of life. No glow from the television, no illumanation of lights or other appliances. No Genji. No one... Not until you walked a few more footsteps and it hit you that the sound wasn’t coming from inside.

You were drawn to the windowed wall, blinds uncharacteristically shut; the views from his home to the world below like another work of art, permanently on display. Except for tonight. So naturally, unfortunately, you were drawn to look out for that reason.

Then, in the weak moonlight, you could see figures huddled around the table in the garden. _Suits_. Young and old, all faces pinched with consequence. Genji among them, carding his hands though his shiny green hair, while everyone spoke over ceramic cups.

You felt your lungs tighten. Perhaps it should have been obvious, perhaps you should have forced yourself to let him go the moment you understood how much he had hid from you, but it all released in one meaningless torrent.

He was clearly one of them, whoever they were.

And next to Genji, _him._  

Hanzo was among them as well. Your first glance upon the man was met in reciprocated surprise.

He had seen you too.


	8. Leaving

Glowing lanterns swayed in the clement air. All around the group was a low murmur, voices rolling into one sound with the occasional grunt of pleasure from the alcohol, both strong and vital to the gathering. The soundscape expanded yet with the distant rumble of motorcycles as they careened down the curve of a neighboring street and the dull clapping of wooden sandals against pavement from someone wandering alone.

Genji had not been interested in anything the night had to offer. His eyes, edging and constantly refocusing, kept pinning the house over their shoulders. Though he sat with them, a handful of  _suits_ , he would have preferred to be in bed still and longed for you, contesting separation by allowing his mind to wander back to you and him earlier. Gratifying recollection of your flushed, hot skin and words he wanted to say still stalled behind moans and hard panting. Hands occupied with the small of your back, sliding over your waist and hips, closer, deeper,  _ah_ …

Hanzo’s habit, the cavillous but dignified way he would clear his throat, snapped Genji’s attention back to his center and brutally severed the lewd visual. 

_Are you paying attention?_

In turn, Genji cupped his face with his hand, slumping over the table to give him his best emotionless blink in response.  _Yes, brother. As you can see, I’m thrilled to be here._ Here, among them, both parties stiffly reluctant in each other’s presence. Shifting, only to chase his flourishing animosity down with slow, premeditated sips of sake that his brother had poured for him, he quietly swallowed and Hanzo looked away once more with someone else around the table calling for his attention.

Genji couldn’t have stopped them from coming, just as he couldn’t have stopped you. It was fate, or bad luck, that the two events coincided. 

After you had fallen asleep, him mustering the sum of his life’s training to leave the bed without waking you, he had dressed once again. White linen yukata with a simple black obi, the family’s twin dragons on the back. He had pulled his yolk-colored haori over his shoulders but found only after he went outside, that the weather was nice enough without it. Well— would have been nice, the evening was spoiled.  _They_  had stormed the yard, smoking, sluggishly batting fans around, prattling on, complaining about rival clans, profit, and mistresses. The usual.

His Father had always listened more than he talked, especially in his memories when he could see the men all gathered around a table, low voices and plumes of smoke distorting all faces. Even when he had intruded, their meetings being no place for a child, his Father wouldn’t budge to rush him out. Only watch him, knowingly, entertaining his then innocent curiosity.

Hanzo was so much like him, directly inheriting his temperament and observing, even tipping his chin and holding his jaw in an identical way. It sometimes felt that his presence had never left.

 _I don’t know why you seek my help, brother… You can handle this without me._ This being what their ancestors had built and maintained, being the empire of delirious, god-like power and unfathomable wealth that made all price tags farcical, police redundant, laws flexible.

But as one of them began loudly boasting about a recent profitable drug deal, for Hanzo’s benefit likely, which quickly merited an unambiguous eye roll from Genji, he slipped back out of the moment, busied by thoughts of you once again.

All until, he was prodded by a voice and the thoughts dissolved.

“Did you take care of it?” 

All eyes on the table converged. Genji shook his head.

“Did I take care of what?” He asked, stunned. It hadn't helped that he could still feel you with him, furrowed by exhaustion but breathing peacefully, drawing circles over his skin.

“Did you  _take care of it_?” Bullishly, smoke through their nostrils, overly emphasizing the last bit.

Genji imagined shuriken pressed in his hands, his palms sweating. He set the drink down, pushing you out of his mind, ashamed to answer with you so clearly in his consciousness as if speaking then would cheapen the recollection. He fought to keep his mind blank, dark, not of you and certainly not them and what he had done.

“I did. This afternoon.” A pause, fitted with a palpable flare of anger. “As I was told to.”

“And the bodies?”

 _I’m not a moron._  Deciding they weren’t worth the anger, energy being energy despite the consequences, Genji obscured his disturbance to the best of his abilities, all creased forehead and incomplete eye contact. "Dealt with."

His patience for their company would surely snap, holding off being absurd and futile all the same. It was just a matter of  _when_.

They barely tolerated the reply but for Genji to say more than one word was a rare generosity. They raised their glass, eyes glowing with distaste but their smile saying otherwise. “Cheers, then.”

“Yeah,” Genji had mumbled, thumbing the glass he had been holding, repressing the vision. The butchery was  _necessary_ , ironically, so he was told. Necessary and expected. 

Hanzo soundlessly lifted his glass, half-mast to everyone else. The elite and honored few around the table drank after ceremoniously joining in on the toast. Setting the bottom of his cup down on the table, the other’s tipping theirs up, Genji was lost in his head again. Hanzo was the only one to detect his malfunctioning attention.  _What are you looking at?_  Staring at his brother, communication on an almost telepathic level, if such a thing between kin were possible.

 _Nothing._  Again, as if he could hear, a trace of weakened mischievousness slipped out of Genji in the shy descent his eyelashes; despite everything, he had something to look forward to.  _See?_

Hanzo looked to the windowed wall, to the blinds that were shut, half-expecting for  _something_ to be there…

Another voice rose from the table, though in that instance just as reasonably a different plane of existence.

“Oi, Genji?”

 _Hm._  Acknowledging he had heard with a sound, absently tapping the cup on the table,  _clink clink clink_ , testing everyone’s fraying tolerance with him, Genji feigned attention.

“Did you hit it off with Mina? She’s been asking about you lately.” 

A chorale of nods and underhanded sneers followed in pursuit from all mouths not occupied by cigarettes. Genji’s bored look challenged them all.

Mina, beautiful, yes, that was unmistaken. Fond of wearing glittery eye shadow, that being her personal autograph. He had known that she liked him, a lot, and had already used that to his advantage— though, well before you. He had sworn to never see her again, hated the glitter that refused to wash out of his sheets but hated even more that they would bring up his past, like stepping over the genkan with shoes packed with mud.

“No.”

 _So, fuck you all_ — not said, there regardless. Mina was a ghost swelling uncomfortably in his blood. She was nothing but a reminder about how cruel and unfair he had been.

They all frowned in varying degrees of disappointment. One even pushed glasses up the bridge of their nose to rub their eyes in unspoken exasperation.

Not that they were overly concerned for his happiness and wellbeing— they just didn’t like you, the idea of you. You shouldn’t have been a part of the picture, not when there were so many eligible daughters living parallel lives to his own that he was expected to be with instead. You were the outsider and to them, you always would be.

When they, the clan, had initially learned about you, the favorable action was to see you terminated. Of course, they had found out from the hit man’s daughter herself that he had left the club with another person that night. And of course they all had witnessed the hit man bringing him to the very border of consciousness with foot and fist, as he writhed at their feet for disobedience— all conveniently swept under the rug now, as he had traded his cooperation for your protection.

Of course no one had wanted to discuss his wellbeing then when he was left twisting on the floor and mottled by contusions, only now, weeks later once they realized  _you_  weren’t going anywhere.

Another asked, “What was wrong with her?” With Mina, with someone Genji  _should have_  been interested in.

“She was boring. And before you ask me, _no_ , I’m not interested in the others either.” Carding his hands through his hair, avoiding the immediate stare of everyone else. “Get them to stop calling me.”

Defiant. For whatever they hoped she would stir in him didn’t exist anymore. Gone. Occupied.

“Hana? Yukiko?”

Lips pulled into a fine line,  _no and no_. “Self-obsessed, addicted to coke.”

“Misaki?”

A hopeful pause.

“The one with the huge implants?” 

One nodded; collectively nonplused that he would distinguish her by that one feature. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Not interested.”

“Fuck me, he’s in love,” said the youngest looking-one at the table, rockabilly hair and eyes as black as coal. “You are, aren’t you?”

At that exact moment, Hanzo saw. You, manipulating the blinds, peaking through, unnoticeable to anyone that hadn’t been looking with intention. He said nothing. Surprised, yes, but already weighing out the cost of mentioning what he had seen… 

“Who is this guy? The things I’d do to have a Misaki for myself…” Slurring, a voice rising from the table. A man with his tie loosened, thin pinstripes creased along his jacket. “Genji, you’re Hanamura’s resident playboy. Don’t kid yourself…”

Hanzo defensively cut in, surprising the group with his austerity. “Consider that season in his life over.” But still, said as he himself was left to consider what it was he had just seen.

Cicadas chirped, bringing attention to how quiet the group had become.

“But Genji, someone like Mina knows  _the life_  we live. Her Father was your Father’s greatest confidant, you must have forgotten. She at least knows what to expect, not like your  _outsider_ …” Another voice from the table had stuttered. A dirty word. What it implied; you were not fit for the family. Not good enough.

From your near constant defense, Genji looked as if he would have slammed his fist through the table as his twitching vascular forearm seized a fistful of livid air. Hanzo’s eyes broke away from the window of the house momentarily, even though you had long since scurried away, having concern for the atmospheric shift and gliding his own linen sleeve up in subconscious preparation to restrain his brother should the moment urge him to do so. The conversation had clearly evolved, volatile now.

“I don’t want to hear any of you talk about her anymore.” Bitterness, veins flaring. His skin was hot. “I joined you. I’ve killed for you, sold your  _fucking_  drugs and weapons—”

Scolding always, Hanzo, but less, “Genji.”  _Brother, they want to see you upset. Don’t give them that._

“But, you haven’t told her yet—“ Another voice, a brave soul for choosing the moment immediately after the Young Master had spoken.

“No,” strongly, then faded, into the brim of the cup, Genji suddenly deciding he needed a drink as he drew ire from the table. “I haven’t. Not yet.”

“Are you daft, boy? You’d be surprised to know that not everyone out there accepts what we do...”

Hanzo, to the surprise of everyone, spoke for his brother, “He knows that.” Accepting the criticism of their sudden laconism, what they must have thought for the defense of his brother’s character. He spoke again, “I  _forbade_  him to tell her.”

Genji set his cup down. It clinked gently on the surface of the table, the others still quietly considering. His eyes widened towards his brother then dissolved into a look only Hanzo would have been able to discern,  _are you saving my ass?_

“Tell her.” Hanzo, deathly calm. Not disappointed, not upset. 

Genji’s lip dropped, brows folded, “But-“ 

Less like the clan leader, more like his brother, “You resisted being a part of this until you met her. She has earned the privilege of knowing what we are— what _you_ are. Tell her.”

Genji, able to read between the lines, knew what Hanzo had really been saying and unfurled a secretive smile for the first time while seated at the table.

 

* * *

  

You had registered that it was Hanzo who saw you and that you were not supposed to be there. You had stared at him, framed by the ghostly wisteria’s shuddering blossoms, looking into eyes that were hauntingly familiar. Eyes, though startled, were wise and acutely noble. Eyes that made you ashamed to look.

Withdrawing eventually, blinds rattling, you were helpless to gasp and nearly trip over the sheet’s train.

Immediately, your mind ran in vicious circles, trying to make sense of what you had seen. You considered leaving, but considered still that someone at the table might hear you going. As small of a probability as it was, you decided that whatever you would do, it would have to wait until morning. Somehow, returning to the bed, you fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamt of Claw, prying your eyes open like the blinds, a shuriken in his hand.

You woke, early morning from the appearance of light that seeped though each fold over the window, drawn still. You were saturated in cold sweat and felt unavoidable pressure in your chest. 

You found your clothes neatly folded on the dresser across from the bed, Genji must have brought them back as he came inside. You didn’t hear him; you had fallen asleep before that.

And there he was then, curled up next to you instead of his usual sprawl. You resisted shaking him awake.

Decidedly, from the insistent manifestations of anxiety,  _you’re not who I thought you were_ , you considered the only sensible thing left was leaving and pulled yourself up to your feet to cross the floor and retrieve your clothes. The dreams crept back in unsavory, visceral reminders as you dressed.  _“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”_

Just as you finished and held a hand to your forehead, the last of reminders particularly real, came “Morning,” followed by a yawn, as if everything was normal— your rendering normal, at least. As if what you had seen didn’t eviscerate the fragile threads that kept you together for the past few weeks as he returned to you, less and less of himself.

He motioned with his hand, calling you back to him in the nest of blankets. You resisted, flatly, but before you could figure out what you would say, the world reduced to a blur from angry tears. Silent but white hot, cutting and itching as they fell.

He sprang up, fully awake in seconds, a jolt from his brain to his toes seeing you cry.

You were furious with yourself for the automatic response, for not saying anything for so long and not being able to speak when you needed to. Your fingers curled into your palms, dragging a forearm over your face. 

“What’s wrong?” Aching, you had sacrificed so much of yourself for him that he was mortified to see you so obviously upset while he uselessly watched.

Your voice impossibly level, salinity on the tip of your tongue. “I woke up last night.”

His heart visibly jumped in his bare chest, asking with mirrored evenness, “What did you see?”

“Something I shouldn’t have,  _apparently_.”  _Something you’ve done a good job at keeping from me._

He rose from the bed as you spoke, feral and strange, but still not without the intangible grace in every movement. You withdrew, not so gracefully, the back of your knees meeting the dresser.

“It wasn’t what it looked like," he started, visibly torn from himself but trying for the sake of your tears to be calm. He could sense you had already come to a conclusion, sensed that damage was irreversible.

 _What about the suits and the goddamn castle? Jesus, what about where you go after you leave and what you’ve done before you come back?_ ”Oh I’ll bet it’s  _exactly what it looks_  like and that’s the  _best part_ , isn’t it? Your family is  _different_ , right?  _Right?_ ”

 _Different_  as in dangerous. As in any inherently negative word.

He said nothing but took another step towards you. You felt your body pull away. A magnet repelling, opposing. Everything was solidifying as you spoke; your voice became panic-stricken, “So, what do you do for them, Genji? What do you do for your family?”

“What I have to, what they ask me to.”  _To keep you safe._ All not without quiet disgust at himself, for not trying to explain when it was critical.

You laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was  _right there_  all along and you refused to believe it.  _And the throwing stars… Not an innocent hobby, I imagine._ Not helpful, the realization. Not then. “I know what the severed fingers mean, Genji. Why didn’t you tell me then? Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I wanted to—”

You gestured frantically, your entire body shaking, “I never asked to be a part of this,  _whatever this is_.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you... I’ll tell you everything.”

It was increasingly hard to stand near him.

“I lo—“ but he stopped himself, and your eyes stung even more.

_Oh, don’t you dare say that._

You tore away from him, down the hallway and to the entrance, determined to leave without having him convince you otherwise. More angry tears had shaken your voice, “I don’t want to hear it.  _Please_ , don’t say it now.”

He caught up to you before the door. In vain, he gripped your wrist and pulled you to him, desperation so deeply bound in his action that it throttled you. Your body mollified, as if your only option was submission into his skin, hot from sleep, from fear of loosing you, from being exposed, from lying, from everything rushing to the surface all at once.

_Don’t leave me here._

And it felt good, as your brain would report, to be inside his arms once again. As much as you felt mistreated by the lies, as much as you were hurt and upset. Life was full of these kinds of inequalities. You wished it burned, all to make it easier. You wished for anything besides his body’s assurance that his wretched secrecy could be reduced to a solvable problem, a faint glimmer of hope that maybe  _yes_ , things would be alright after all, and you could one day eventually settle down. You’d be more permanent than his choice of dye, be together long enough to see his natural coloring, even as it greyed. You could live here, in Hanamura, with the molting trees and the startling view of the world below. You could do it— couldn’t you?

You thought of the last time you had smoothed his hair, reassured him you weren’t going anywhere, and then blatantly felt betrayed by that version of you.  _She knew you weren’t good for me and she promised you that anyway._

“You can’t leave me now. You  _know_ me.”

And belief that you could stay with him furled shut, like a stop-motion of decay, for you  _did not_  know him. He had never let you.  _Not then, and certainly not now._

The days you had spent together, no distinguishing one from the other, curling around you like falling petals. Time, remorseless, an impassive force, moved forward and dragged you with it. You felt the finality of each action then; pulling yourself free from him, looking upon his face. The startled space between you that trembled.

The last glance you had of him was terrible. Looking was a self-inflicted wound. Eyes red and irritated. Chest heaving and shuttering as if for once in his life, he was cold. 

Which didn’t stop you, only made it harder. Even after all the times you had thought it, all the times it had ran through you, transcending the privacy of your thoughts, it became brittle speech.

“I don’t think you  _ever_  let me know you.”

By that, he was broken.

You were right.


	9. Claw

 

You assumed he would call. Or show up.  _Something._

You imagined it, constantly, disturbed by the same visual like the tenderness of a bruise, helpless to keep bothering it and delaying its eventual healing. You imagined him, mishandled from a day doing  _whatever it was that he did_  in such painful confidentiality, knocking at the door to your apartment. It would be well into the night. His jacket would be off and resting over a shoulder, tie hanging unknotted down the front of his undone shirt, green hair at ends with pieces hanging in his face. A sight you had seen frequently, but different.  _I can’t take it_ , shamefaced, the fragmentary look still present about his eyes. He’d inhale deeply, re-think whatever it was he had planned to say, whatever he’d been reciting as he leapt up the stairwell to your floor, before shaking it entirely out of his mind at the sight of you because he had _loved_ you so strangely and quietly, from his purlieu in dishonesty, that he would know then how grossly inadequate words were.

And you’d let him inside. You’d fail to hold your tongue because you had an abundance of silence since leaving him and all it lead to was imagined conversations charged by expired versions of your feelings, all things that seemed less important with him standing there. But he’d act before you and begin to apologize over and over through kisses.  _How could I have not told you? How could I have kept you in the dark?_  While begging for absolution in the delicate press of his lips over your own and kissing away the brimming of tears from your eyes, shut tightly in a weak attempt to close yourself off from him. Muffled sobs, eventual caving. Kissing him back with the understanding that the world thrived yet in inequalities and was not interested in making sense anytime soon. You wanted him, still.

You’d be restored, partially. The gesture wouldn’t make you forget— no, couldn’t fundamentally change what he was either— but maybe, just maybe, it could have been a step towards forgiveness. If only he had only done something.

He hadn’t.

And without him, there was a claustrophobia about the day. You were encased in each hour and every minute throbbed, taunted. You would stare at the clock as if you were in-between dial tones, waiting for him to call you back.  _It’s been almost 24 hours... It’s been exactly 2 days... It’s been 3 days and 9 hours._  Trying to get through was impossible without returning to the thought of him, wondering where he was, if he was thinking about you. All mild forms of torture. And still, you waited, as if your patience or stubbornness would at long last be rewarded with the vision of him at the door. _I can’t go back, I left him. But, if he reached out... S_ omehow logical, reasonable. Somehow kept you waiting.

Your friends had made it no less easy on you, wondering why you ended your relationship with him because, as they liked to remind you, you had been all over each other.  _It just didn’t work out_ — proved to be an unsatisfying, insufficient answer. Met with eye-rolls, met with other foul questions and accusations:  _“Did he cheat on you?” “Was he into weird shit?” “What was wrong with him?"_

_1) Not that I’m aware of._

_2) Yes, but you mean sexually and I don’t. He’s a ninja. Does that count?_

_3) Cherry on top, and my personal favorite so thank you for that: he’s yakuza, I think._

Good enough reasons, in their own pious right, but all left unsaid. Your constant dismissal meant they soon understood you were holding the details ransom, meant they made their own reasons. Talking about it, out loud, having to find words to describe anything that happened, made it too real. Leaving it all a mystery, unsaid, somehow made it less final. Smoke without fire; no need for alarm, just quiet panic.

You would stagger between emotions, though, all shared complete neglect for your responsibilities. You hadn't wanted to do anything and so primarily took to sitting in bed with the blanket pulled up over you, staring at the moon with sleepless eyes. Your only steady company, aside from friends coming to check-in on you with sympathetic offerings of wine and ice cream, had been the lilac glow from the early summer skies. 

 _Are you thinking about me too?_ Thinking the all-consuming thoughts.  _Do you miss me?_

You couldn’t decide if you were more angry or upset but if you had been sure of anything, it was that the book,  _his_  book, had earned detention once again. You ended up kicking it under the bed, after constantly shifting which shelf or surface it should occupy. 

At night, when you attempted laying still enough for sleep, you could have sworn you had caught the periodic ticking, scraping claws from under you, just as well, scratching inside your head. 

_If I’m mad enough to hear sounds, I’m mad enough to do something about it._

Refusing another night of hallucination-spiked half-slumber, the end of yet another empty day creeping up on you, you tucked the book,  _his_  book, under your arm and left for the station as if in a trace. You, purblindly, on a whim, took it with you to Hanamura with the intention of returning it. Or, leaving it. Dropping it off at his doorstep. Again, something.

Which had been reasonable in abstract, explicable in theory, but upon your arrival at the station with the lucent night in full swing, less straightforward. 16-Bit Hero and Rikimaru softened you, reminded you of what you had once had. There should have been no coming back, but you had, and had to sit with the vexation of doing so.

_Okay. Now what?_

Rikimaru drew you inside, devoid of an explanation. You stepped under the felt banner into the aromatic sphere of konbu and salt. The chef noticed you and tried to avert his eyes. As you approached the counter, before you could even consider what you would say, if anything at all, he explained while handling thin noodles, expertly arranging them in a ceramic bowl, “I haven’t seen him. Okay?”

You gave him a look; his unanticipated brevity had caught you off guard, seemingly out of nowhere. "What?"

A thoughtful gap between your question and his response. Steam rushed over his face, a tiny mad cloud, before he moved about to fetch ingredients, cold sober. “Lately, there’s been more people here lookin' for him than ordering. So, if that’s what you’re here for, my official statement is I haven’t seen him and I don’t know where he is.” He delivered his testimony, his attention focused still at the ramen as he pilled garnishes about the dish.

“I’m sorry, I just...”  _I just what?_  Without a reason, you found one quickly, “I wanted to order...“ The imaginary question mark halted between your teeth.

The man looked embarrassed. His shoulders relaxed, “Of course, I was only expecting that you— _ah_ , never mind. My apologies, really. Should I get you  _his_  usual?” And you couldn’t be mad, even with the searing nature of the allusion to  _he_ , you were distracted by what had inadvertently been revealed. 

Genji, missing not only from your life—  _theirs_  too. If suits had come looking for him here, his regular haunt, it was superlatively clear why chef had been rattled and defensive. It was their job to shake people up, wasn’t it? And as he thoughtfully prepared your bowl, you could see him tremble through his fingers.

You ate slowly, not out of hunger but obligation to the chef, listening to the conversations around you. Hanamura wanted to be kind, wanted to nudge you in the right direction. Around you, its people were laughing, alive. It made you feel small, but not unpleasantly so. Not then. As brief as it had been, you took refuge in the small comfort as if it would be the very last of its kind.

It wasn’t until you had settled your bill and stepped out of Rikimaru were you in tune with something else. Creature comforts of ramen forgotten in an instant, in came the the feeling of being observed, a feeling like the first few droplets of rain hitting your nose or shoulder, the resulting acute shift in awareness that something was about to happen. You looked, scanned the crowd that moved about you for anything out of place. There was no point in trying to be discrete, not anymore. You wanted to draw them out, whoever it was.

“Genji?” You mouthed, scarcely able to keep your heart from leaping up. You wanted it to be him. Selfishly. And then irrationally and irritatingly, because you  _shouldn’t_  have wanted it to be him.

You moved then, with purpose, into a path that backed into a dead end. The person who had followed you, no longer mingling with the others on the street behind, made themselves known.

Disappointment, first, from you. Limbs heavy, heart settling back.

_Not Genji._

Something close to fear, fear-adjacent at least, second for you had positively identified your pursuer as a suit. Unfamiliar, being it was neither Claw or Taiyaki, and that he was palpably younger than the others had been. Not quite as hardened too, as his face suggested, but  _god bless him_ , trying.

You asked, directly, with unabridged eye-contact, “Where is he?” 

He stared at you, blankly, as if your question was directed to someone standing behind him. You disliked him for that, on top of all the other mounting reasons.

“Never mind, I don’t want really to see him.”  _…Or, do I? I mean, I wanted it to be him instead of you… Wait, am I really asking myself this now?_  You were not without an internal roll of your eyes, speaking hastily to clarify, “Can you, just, give this to him?” And held the book out for him to take.

He promptly took a step back, a child pulling away from his mother trying to feed him spinach, quickly identifying the book as something he didn’t want. Instead, he spoke, finally, “Follow me.”

_Well, that’s new._

And so you did, without even a shred of hesitation that it might not have been a good idea. You had blinders on, whether you would have freely admit or not, but only realized after you slid the door open and shuffled inside the dimly lit bar that he wasn’t there.

You could have laughed at your impatience then. You could have feasibly told him, the young guy,  _to go fuck himself_  for wasting your time, for allowing you to entertain the idea, build the false hope, that you would be face-to-face with Genji once again and left. You could have, would have, except you hadn’t.

Except, there in all his unexpected glory, was Hanzo. At the head of a long table, thumbing a glass of sake, all cruel cheekbones and long brown hair with a vacant pout. Sitting, flanked by suits all talking noisily while he watched and listened, impassive royalty and all the rigidity you expected.

No one had noticed you enter. The suit that had brought you moved up the long table and bent down by Hanzo, whispering something in his ear that made him slowly, slowly like the decisively wrong way to remove a bandage, peer down the table to witness you standing at the opposite end.

And of course, while it dawned on you that it was a reckless move for you to go back to Hanamura, and it was an even worse decision to follow the suit into Shimada territory; nothing topped the sheer, tender stupidity of dropping the book onto the tabletop under Hanzo’s gaze. A tremendous, dull thunk on the solid slab of lacquered wood, in complete ignorance of the expression: quit while you’re ahead.

There was no way for them not to notice as all the glasses peppering the tabletop had jumped on impact, clinking.

You stared at Hanzo, meeting his gaze that had not yet decided on an emotion.

 _Now would be the perfect time to say something_ — at the same time, shushing yourself. “Give this back to your brother.”

Hanzo let go of his cup, drawing a thumb to his lip to give you a thoughtful look, as if you were some strange modern painting he was trying to figure out. He wasn’t mad or shocked, not visibly.

And like word vomit, struggling with all the other pairs of eyes on you, you added, “So, everyone can stop following me now. Thanks.”

You briefly looked to the young guy, who decided he had a personality and sneered, fortified by his company. The atmosphere, to your discomfort, grew increasingly antagonistic.

Of course they knew who you were and they all began talking again, except not to themselves— to you, about you. It all registered as one great sound; you stood and felt the barrage of voices.  _Outsider. How dare she…? Who does she think she is to speak to us like that… Him like that?_

As soon as Hanzo cleared his throat, the room fell into a tomblike hush. You could hear the bartender wiping down the counter with a damp rag, a flush from the bathroom, the wind outside shifting. You told yourself not to be intimidated, you told yourself it was too late to let the tension in the room get to you.

You had been numbed, made impatient, made desperate. It was clear to you and him.

Hazno was calm as he spoke, an elegant temper shifting beneath him at everything he said, “I am glad to meet you, formally..” Picking up the cup once more, his eyes following the glass, drinking the last of his sake with confidence. He spoke through the burning of his throat, “… Even considering what has happened.”

_Welcome to the family._

Hanzo stood then, drifting down the table, annoyingly— infuriatingly— with matched grace to Genji. The assumptions that followed were unprovoked; that he must have been equally trained and he was just as impressive, if not, stronger… For his advantage of age, for his air of seriousness. For his unapologetic intensity.

To your embarrassment, once he moved around the table, he collected the book before facing you. He held it tightly in both hands.

You were served the same look from the table, the night before you ended your relationship up with his brother. The identical stare, as if he had caught you doing something you shouldn’t have. Quietly hostile, but then he decided against it, blinked again, and became warm.

The masterful silent communication you had perfected with Genji was suddenly applicable. You understood Hanzo then, just by his eyes, by the amber, like Genji, alive in the dimmed halogens. Ache for all the days you had been without him, flaring under the identification of his similarities. The universe sighed. 

Then, quietly and low, under the pulse of anticipation, Hanzo spoke. “He misses you.”

You were stunned into silence. Absolutely void of coherent thought. You could feel your bottom lip drop, searching for speech and finding nothing. You wanted to believe he had missed you, but hearing it, confirmation— something else entirely. For Hanzo saying what as he had, made the whole moment less real. Surreal. 

Quieter still, appraising your look, “He has… turned his back on his  _obligations_  to the family. Even for my brother, it was a foolish thing to do.” 

You softened, melted. Involuntary. Words, finally, produced and at a matched volume, “Do you know where he is?”

His face did not shift or loose a fraction of its seriousness. He raised an eyebrow and gave you a look you had seen at least, without the garnish of exaggeration, a hundred times before.  _Of course I know where he is._

Hanzo turned away from away from the table, leaving the others to their own devices. He leaned into you in case anyone was feeling gutsy and trying to eavesdrop, “If I give this back to him, he will know you came back to Hanamura.” Stopping, looking suddenly uneasy, "I am certain he will want to see you.”

You were completely, thoroughly, and totally lost. The very person you thought that had wanted to keep you apart was trying to bring you back together. It didn’t matter what his motivation was, not then. It didn’t cross your mind.

“Would you talk to him?”

You nodded, not without a feeling of estrangement towards your enthusiasm.  _Yes._

And then, Hanzo, not without the smallest flicker of relief about him, nodded. “I will give this to him. Right away. Wait there.”

Of course you knew where  _there_  was.  _Wait there_ — not here, not with the menacing suits, the clenched fists and beat faces, exploitation of hair gel, belligerence and judgment. 

 _There._ Shimada Castle.

Hanzo and you left, leaving the table to shuffle back into their own discussions and the bar to its previous undisturbed volume. He nodded at you then turned into the wind, night snapping around him. You looked over your shoulder as you walked away, helpless to curiosity as to what direction he might have gone in, when you realized he was gone already.

Vanishing was a shared trait. Genji’s voice, from the back of your mind, confirmed what you had already expected.

_“Ninja.”_

The temple grounds were full of pale moonlight once you advanced, stars of tinsel, washing everything in indigo. You had hardly began to cross the yard when—

“Hey you! Yeah! You!”

Claw. Harassing the night with his shouting, his face was red and he wobbled on the spot, clearing one of the many doorways about the perimeter.

Aside from your immediate surprise, your body adjusting as fast as it could to the realization, you didn’t like the way he looked at you— looked being the keyword as the sunglasses were tucked in his jacket pocket and you were subject to his eyes.

He laughed, stumbled forward, abusing the night once again with his tone, “Are you expecting someone else? Should I—,” an unpleasant hiccup that he wasn’t counting on stopped him briefly before he resumed, "— Should I come back?” 

You couldn’t speak. Even without proof, you had known Hanzo hadn't sent for him. Implicitly. Claw was on a mission of his own. You kept quiet to discourage a monologue of nonsense, as recited by his apparent state of inebriation.

“I warned you not to come back but _here you are_...” He paused to readjust the lapel of his jacket. “I heard a little story saying you two broke up or whatever? You dumped that… that  _fucking_ punk. Good for you. He’s done a lot of awful shit that would just—,” deep inhale, satisfied grin, “— break your heart.“

You hadn’t meant to reply but the words tumbled out.

“I don't believe it.”

Even if you did, you didn’t want to hear it. Especially not then.

Claw laughed. “But my  _darling_ ,” mockingly again, stretched out, just as he had said before, “It's what we do! It's what we've always done! Didn’t he ever explain that to you? You poor thing…”

Spine shifting, trying to maintain distance,rouge curiosity had you quiet. You braced yourself.

“The Shimada clan built a—” hiccup, “very powerful empire. Centuries in the making, of course. That castle over there,” a vague gesture behind him, “has facilitated more horror, death, and profit, than you could ever imagine...”

You knew. You had known. You had guessed. Still—

“Little Genji is a murder. A dealer. A no-good  _fucking_  lowlife.”

_He couldn’t be._

He advanced you again, predatorily, stirring on his haunches as if he was preparing to leap. You held your ground, as best as you could.

“The  _funny_  thing is, that kid never did anything for the clan before you. Nothing. Just this—“ pointed his middle finger towards his eyebrow, “Then you came along…”

“What do you mean?”

“Which part? Hm? That thanks to him I have this?”

Brushing over the explanation that Genji and him had a long, bad history; that Genji had it in him to do lasting damage, physically; that if Genji had wanted, he could have shifted whatever it was he had used to scar him only centimeters over and Claw would have had an entirely different nickname.

You backed away, but for each step back, he took another forward. He laughed and you despised the sound. It twisted you up inside. “He only agreed to doing his part for us because we would have killed you—“

_Excuse me?_

“Why should I have to slide down the hierarchy just because he wants to fuck around? Why should I let this punk call the shots? Huh? I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve been devoted. I’ve been loyal. Like a *hic* fucking moron…”

He waved his hand, swatting imaginary flies. The little finger, plain as anything.

He was drunk enough that you told yourself you could outrun him. You could escape. You would get far enough away, all you needed was the opportunity; for him to let his guard down just one more time. He was close enough then that you could see the whites of his eyes, or what would have been white if they were not bloodshot and glassy.

He continued still, increasingly charged up, “So, where was he before  _this_? Where is he  _now_?”

_Oh god._

He moved, faster than you anticipated, trapping you in his arms and heaving fourth the revolting stink of cigarettes and alcohol. You immediatly resisted, fighting against him, but his grip was terribly strong and you had only assumed he had intended for this the moment he made himself known.

_Good-fucking-god._

He made a minor adjustment, shifting both your hands into one of his easily with his vice-like grip, as he patted down his own person. He had done this before, restraining you had been too easy. You fought against him harder, out of instinct with your nerves refusing to believe your situation, but then froze out of necessity. 

_A knife. Christ. Of all fucking things._

Thought, devotedly useless strings of words and ideas that would do nothing for you but shuffle around your head as he, for lack of a softer term, cut you into pieces or whatever was on the agenda for a drunk gang member brandishing a sharp object.

He lazily placed a blade to the skin of your neck, and not without a menacing snarl, pressing firmly enough that you wondered if you weren’t cut already, “Now that I’ve told you,”  _whoops, he fucking said whoops,_ “I’ll have to kill you...”

The adrenaline in you screamed and coursed and gossiped.  _Do something, do something._  Dragon’s claws scratched and ticked, rapid as your heartbeat, while the world crawled though molasses. The air slowed, the earth slowed— a molecular level, damned by lethargy. Petals hung in the air, watching and waiting.  _What are you going to do, huh?_

With as much scared, brute force as you could summon, arms still bound and body pressed to his chest, you kicked a foot back. Miraculously, square into his groin. The knife broke contact with you and slipped out of his hand, clattering to the wooden planks beneath you and strange catharsis for all the built up frustration and panic.

And he let you go with a yelp. You pushed yourself forward while he was tugged backwards.

Yes. Tugged.


	10. Sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of blood/descriptions of other violent acts

You hadn’t heard anyone approach, too wrapped up in the awareness of the knife pressed to your throat.

You scurried around to collect yourself as you passed a hand up to your neck in disbelief. There had been no cut where the blade was held, only the crude assumption that there should have been. Your breathing was still strained and awful, the air was sharp and rich with the intention of violence and for that reason, difficult to take in. Everything registered slowly and ineffectually, but finally.  _Finally._

Claw, akin to falling the wrong way into a swimming pool while dealing with the already debilitating pain of your kick and coupled with the imbroglio of his own intoxicated rage, was all limbs as he crashed onto his back. He was winded once again from the body that moved on top of him, to hold him down and back; winded alongside the restriction of air from an elbow that pressed firmly into his throat, misshaping any sound he could have made.

The person— in an outfit you could not place, all white linen and orange-crested, twitching muscles underneath. Two swords sheathed and crossed over their back, a headband secured over their juniper green hair.

 _It's you._  Silent awe gave away into the feeling you wanted to find as you searched Hanamura for his face.

Genji.

Snarling, one with fury itself, Genji had Claw immobilized. You were secondary to his trembling, consuming anger. His entire focus had been poured into a shuriken that he brandished, as it hovered over Claw’s undamaged eye with intent— like the dream you had before, only in reverse.

Claw kicked ineffectually as he searched for his bearings since having receded into himself with the understanding that he was no longer in control, charmingly noted in every facial feature. 

“Move and get a matching one of those.” Genji gestured with his chin to Claw’s other eye, insistent on keeping the shuriken poised, towards the scar that intersected his eyebrow as he ceased to thrash. It was apparent how he wasn’t fond of the existing one with the threat of another rendering him still and manageable. 

From underneath Genji’s guarded elbow, the gauntlet he wore lending extra influence, the pressure further strained Claw’s ragged accent as he spoke between gasps, “Oi. You gonna kill me now,  _Sparrow_?” Unblinking and spitting, the words rolling into a wavering laugh, a nervous tic.

“With pleasure." In cadence and momentum of anger, Genji replied without thinking.

“See!” Claw shouted, seemingly indirect until you were aware that you were the audience he was trying to reach and he pulled you back into the moment, “Genji kills people! No remorse! Nothing but a  _filthy murderer_ —” 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Genji’s mouth pulled into a fine line before he looked over to you briefly with something like terror in his eyes for what he knew he could potentially do to Claw, though, overcome with remorselessness otherwise. For all the latent strength possessed by his body, for the dumb, brute instinct of wanting to tear Claw limb from limb and rid the world of his presence if not, for the single fact, that he had stupidly threatened your own precious life. No part of him would be sorry to hurt him, not even remotely; only disturbed at what you would have to bear witness to.

There was something like terror in Genji then, knowing that he would  _always_  kill for you, if he had to.

The possibility of death became one with the already presented violence that imposed itself upon you, the rapid putrefaction of atmosphere. You were unable to help, then, the abrasive mental image of what would happen to an eyeball if introduced to the sharp edge of a throwing star. 

He wanted to explain the accusations, sandpaper over the rough edges of truths. He had killed, but it hadn’t been that simple.  _Not my choice. Never up to me. Forced to. Turf battles. Rouges. Threats. Didn’t want to. Hated it— and myself. If I refused, they would harm you. Couldn’t let that happen. A piece of me went with every kill. But if I could undo it all…_

He shifted back as Claw resumed his struggle under him.  _What did I say about moving?_  Fresh anger inflated in his tone with his weaponized hand forced closer to Claw’s sweat-shined brow, “If you even look in her direction again, I’ll—” 

“You’ll what?” Claw stopped struggling, but added darkly, “Don’t try anything stupid,  _kid_. You know what’ll happen…” 

You and anyone else watching, provided there had there been more than just the three of you, would have recognized instantly how transparent Claw’s line was. Genji scoffed, “You think I care?” Simultaneously— M _y brother would never let anything happen._

Claw laughed. “You should care,  _kid_. They won’t let you off the hook... Not this time…”

The irony wasn’t lost on you then; such ugly things taking shape under the ethereal lilac sky as the moon reemerged from behind wispy, dreamlike clouds.

“You would have killed her if I hadn’t stopped you.”  _It almost happened— if the timing was off, even by a moment…_

Inappropriate but still palpable was the pull of his eyes towards you then; the need to look at you in delayed, incredulous wonder. The two of you had long since departed social convention and were undisturbed by Claw’s gasps and desperate inhales, all as luck and fate watched from the sidelines with invested interest.

_It almost didn’t happen. All of this._

“And so what? Huh? What if I did?” His slurred, passionate speech was matted and dirtied by years of hate for Genji. Claw was unable to decide on volume as he shouted again, “Are you  _that damn stupid_? After everything your brother did for you, everything  _we_  did for you…”

 _We_ was an impulsive choice of word;  _we_  had included Claw himself.  _We_  twisted Genji’s face and aura, like a current of invisible electricity that jolted his body and forced him to react.  _You did nothing for me. None of you._  “I’m tired of hearing you talk.” Possessed and with his wrist curving, he struck Claw in the side of his face.

You expected blood, but Genji had reconfigured his grip before his knuckles made impact. Fist against flesh and bone, not a stab wound, but solid enough to get a point across.

“Bastard,” Claw, immobilized still, spoke though the shooting pain, “I’m tired of your shit, you punk. You  _fucking_  punk…” His words dissolved into choking from Genji leaning all of his weight onto his elbow in hopes of fully silencing Claw. “Fuck you.” 

“I said,  _shut up_.” Genji, baring his teeth, gave another focused punch in the same place. Overkill. You heard the soft, nauseating pop of dislocation.

Claw withstood the pain, seemingly only because his drunken condition allowed it. If he had been sober, he would have been reduced into tears and howling. Instead, he gave a mild yelp, mostly for his surprise, which fused yet into another perverse laugh, “Kill me, Sparrow.  _Try to._ ” His voice, distorted from his new injury, like talking with a full-mouth.

Genji, looked at his fist then at the sad twist of Claw’s face, the horror he had created as if by divine intervention. Still, a part of him had wanted to, a part of him latched onto disturbed relief. Reverence.

But a sudden shift had Claw focus all of his energy and momentum. With a surge, animal-like force, he managed to sit up and shove Genji off, who rolled to the side and sharply returned to his feet. Genji charged him, pulling the smaller of his two swords free. Claw, with enough time to find his knife, protected himself from the wakizashi. The two blades met and locked.

Even with Claw having undoubtedly lived through his share of fights, his years of experience, his height and weight advantage, Genji had been overqualified. The numerical odds said it was even. It wasn’t. Still, in complete drunken ignorance, Claw threatened, "You won’t live to see the sunrise.”

Which had you again, thinking about the lilac glow of the sky. The beautiful early summer night was still a lonely thing. Maybe it always would be.

Genji was silent rage, Claw’s words expressively bending and arching his eyebrows. A snarl ripped through his throat in lieu of words.

“What a disappointment you are, kid. Without your father to save you, without your brother… You’re nothing.”

You felt pins and needles in your limbs for Genji, for the secrecy and unfairness of the world he was forced to live in, for the slow reveal of who he really was. Genji himself remained unflinching, focused.

Which pushed more words in Claw's search for a reaction. “She can watch you die,  _Sparrow_. If they won’t get rid of you, I will." 

The concern that followed unhinged  _just enough_  of Genji’s attention towards you, and  _just enough_  for Claw to act again. With unanticipated swiftness, he used his left hand and punched Genji in the gut. Genji had falsely assumed that Claw’s alcohol-soaked muscles would resist, that his movements would be sloppy and soft. His emotion shifted, eyes shut upon the collision, tightening his core to counteract the impact only worked to a point; his armor’s chestpeice gave away to a flexible midsection and had been far from completely impervious.

Genji shuffled back, pushing surprised air from out between his still-clenched teeth, before leaping forward once more. But Claw deflected again, with what appeared to be more of an accident than aptitude, and the two resumed the lock between blades.

“I’ll kill you.” Claw spat but not without thinly veiled self-satisfaction for landing a punch, a conquest dedicated to all the times in the past where he wished he had been able to. “I’ll kill you first. Then her. She’s going to watch.”

Genji was all too aware of his inebriation, his nostrils flaring at the unmistakable stench of Claw hammering fourth from every pore. With it, groundless confidence in himself as assured by the bottle he had consumed. But still, behind that, the sure reek of mortality.

Even with all the threats, you could feel there was something holding both of them back. Genji, with the massive sheathed blade on his back, could have easily sliced him in half if he had wanted to, but refrained from even suggesting to use it. Claw, the louder of the two, reflexively pressing his free-hand up his face to his twisted mandible, could have already been dead.

Just then— A smirk,  _his_  smirk. The half-smile stretching over Genji, as lop-sided as the moment itself. The burning inside you, the anger at yourself from leaving him matched the anger you felt at him for being who he was.

His voice was soft once again, sly, “You can’t kill anyone without a weapon.” 

“… What?” Confusion apparent, Claw stared at the knife he was holding.  _There’s one in my hand, what are you talking about?_

Genji, moving his arm just so, pulled his wakizashi up and back in a successful disarm. The knife Claw was holding ineffectually slipped from his hand, once again, and scuttled over the deck before inopportunely— for him— slipped and dissappeared between two planks of wood. 

By the time he spoke again, after sheathing his blade without breaking eye contact, there was almost laughable disregard for everything that had forced the moment, “Like I said, you’re completely unarmed. Hardly a fair fight.”

If it had been a movie, you would have done a Breakfast Club arm raise over the small victory, you would have cheered, voiced your approval. And ideally, Claw would have surrendered then, recognizing futility in the moment. Maybe he would lob off his other pinky to atone for his scheming, maybe you would never see him again. Opportunity presented itself.

A brief, sick moment of gravid silence proved nothing had been truly been resolved.

“No, Sparrow, you’re right…” Claw mused. He had reached inside his jacket pocket, only to pull out a sidearm. “It  _isn’t_ fair…”

Genji’s eyes widened.

Everything shifted again, the earth itself included. He hadn’t aimed the gun at Genji, the barrel pointed towards you.

“How about this?”  _I kill her first and never have to see your smug face again._

Panic, everything, swelling to the surface. He looked as if his heart had stopped beating. A reoccurring nightmare in the flesh. You in turn, felt this. You felt everything. You felt the night all around you.

You looked, from the nose of the gun, infinite and cold, to him. To Genji, once again. And, not said, but there regardless, all of his feelings _. I’ve felt more for you than I thought I could, more than I should have. I’m about to do something I would never want you to see. I will not let him hurt you. Know that I have to do this. Know that I love you. Don’t forget._

Before the trigger was pulled, Claw dawdling, savoring his moment of false victory at what he thought was the complete shattering of Genji’s soul, Genji pulled the ōdachi from his back as he moved forward in sacrificial folly— or more specifically, bravery, for putting himself between you and the gun.

You could not believe what you witnessed. 

Like all combat, only the details struck you, the rest had been too frenzied to make complete sense. Swift, green light, a pulse, a glow. The ear-spitting sound, the sudden saturation of red, the sonorant movement of the large blade. The sidearm,  _along with Claw’s complete right hand_ , wetly falling to the planks beneath.

Instinctually, you recoiled. Pure visual trauma. You had never seen anything like it, you weren’t even sure if it were possible— but there it was, plain as anything.

Claw, who roared in pain, shuttering, was delivered another slash across the chest. It had only enough to score him, to make him bleed violently, to paint the blade and the ground, but, not enough to puncture or kill.

Genji’s being throbbed, the ōdachi light in his hand.

“You… Bastard! I’ll kill you! You’re dead!” Claw, spitting, each sound only melting into a howl of pain, his hobbling and limping as he made his retreat. 

Genji in contrast, with back straight and voltaic blade controlled at his side, dripping. Alert. Awake.

But you had seen enough.

“Genji. Stop.” Too quiet to make a difference, hardly breaking a whisper. You couldn’t watch anymore. You were in shock.

He was far too lost to hear you, raising the sword once more—

“Stop!”

Genji, as if your voice was miles away, stopped, turned to the sound. A faint stipple of blood jumped over his face like the splattering of red candle wax.

Looking at him like that was hard.

Claw, tripping over himself, fell down on the planks, feet away from the colossal wooden gates. He was still weakly making vocalizations of his injury; the pain had no doubt been immense and if left untreated, fatal. “You’re dead, Genji. When they find out—“ a wince, an arm pulled over his stomach, then back at the surge of crimson the contraction forced out, “When they find out…”

Not crucial, not then. Already considered, already weighed. Genji’s attention shifted, you being the focus with everything else receding. Resigning to exhaustion, or absurdity; life's details thumped with fake importance. The fine, cascading gravel that swirled around arrangements of rocks and boulders, the sanguine-colored wood fortifications of the buildings that crowded the area, the man dying, his head rolling on his neck as if it were twice as heavy. It was easier to ignore them.

He began taking slow steps towards you.

You pulled back. Firmly, though in a small voice, “Don’t.” 

He obeyed, stopping, appraising your eyes.  _I had to. I’m sorry._

Your heart thumped. RUN. AWAY. RUN. AWAY. But stupidly, foolishly, and impossibly, you wouldn’t.

You noticed your last opportunity to speak. Your voice did nothing but shake. “Why did it have to be _like this_?” 

Did you have it in you to be angry? Was there any part left of you that stood solidly enough in the moment to feel anything besides the empty space in your chest where shock had buried?

Genji, ashamed, sheathed his sword in surrender. He recognized he had done enough. Still, weakly, the ache of a question he had asked since you left, the awful sound of his voice breaking, “This is who I am. This is who I never wanted you to see."

The night reached out, filling the space in-between you with a soft breeze. Petals rushed around your feet like a tide returning to the sea. Clouds stretched over the moon once again.

He spoke again but softer. "How could you... love someone like me?”

“I did.”

The tense. Genji winced. You didn’t have voice enough to correct it, you didn’t want to say it. The time to say it was never once there was no time left.

And as the night, again, sighed and you looked towards the severed hand, Genii’s pupils shrank. From over you over your shoulder, towards the gate, the young suit from earlier stood clutching a hand over his mouth. He saw what had become of Claw, whose breathing had drastically slowed. He flirted with the point of no return, only clinging to life because of his stubbornness and vice-like grip. They backed away and took off running, tearing back down the street.

You had not seen what he had.

“You have to go.” From his eyes, the recognition that the incidence of the suit had shortened whatever meager time he had with you, the recognition that night raced on and would be filled with more blood. From his eyes, the unmistaken realization that staying was not an option if you wanted to live to see the sunrise.  _There's no time left. I'm so sorry._

He stepped towards you, with urgency, until you became parallel once again. After being separated, severed for so long— too long, the unmistaken comfort was there. You could feel his heat, see the smoothness of his throat bend with a hash swallow.

_I don’t want to. I can’t leave you again._

Everything was clipped. Shortened and abridged but as palpable as sand falling through the hourglass. Everything had changed and was about to change again.

“I’ll always be with you,” he assured, his voice gentle.

Everything hurt. Your bodies both knew separation was coming, again. It would be final, it would be terrible and deep. 

He spoke, his voice hardly above a whisper, “I’ll come back to you." _Somehow._

Skeptical then. As things moved, coming full circle. You had a feeling, intrinsic; it was a lie for your comfort. It was wise to not believe it, but more painful than any truth yet.

_I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be looking for you._

He reached out to you, his movements halted just as quickly as if his limbs had been secured by chains. Even with the Pollock-type bloodstains, you imagined how good it would feel for one last time to find shelter in his arms. All your feelings rose up in you chest, all too aware of the cavity. For just as badly as you wanted contact, contact denied you and the space around your body ached.

The last of your communication in the eyes you loved so much— _go now._

Knees weak, legs weak, body weak, you retreated back into startled Hanamura, who pretended to be unaffected as you fled to the station.

Leaving Claw to feel life splash about him and deaf to the weak sounds of his suffering, Genji withdrew to wait in Shimada Castle for whatever would come for him.


	11. Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of blood and descriptions of other violent acts/death  
> 

Shimada Castle was still standing proudly, undisturbed, in the wake of the previous violence. It was well into the night but the lanterns glowed and the wind playfully rushed through the vacancy of the main chamber in undecided spurts before loosing interest and dying back down.

Waiting on the tatami, Genji curled into himself, his legs pulled up to his chest and chin resting between his knees. He stared up at the altar, towards the scroll. His only comfort, incentive for stillness, was inside the reminder that you had been right there; that he had seen you so clearly and completely before you went. Again.

He assumed that punishment was well warranted for what he had done to Claw, just as he had received from standing up the assassin’s daughter. A slap on the wrist— because of who he was, because what they called his brother. And so he waited, settled in silence, for their inescapable consequences.

Though Genji’s assumptions had been radically premature and limited. He had not fully considered the impact of the young suit’s observation. How they had ran back to the bar, their limbs loose and eyes widened in fear, thinking of their mother’s scolding: _"I don’t like your new friends-_ _they look dangerous."_   _She was right, all along she was right._ How he fell to his knees, pale and battling emetic symptoms of horror, speaking in fragments, “Genji’s killed him... _Tried to_ … Saw it… _All of it_ …” How Taiyaki had set his cup down with a blank look plastered over him and how the Elders, who had since joined the mix, listened with tremendous disappointment. How the room jeered and grew too loud to be calmed or contained as they listened to the testimony... How by the time Hanzo had returned, a crushing and irreversible judgment had passed.

“ _Young Master._ ” The use of the word was empty as an Elder pressed his palm on Hanzo’s shoulder; calling him as such but evident then to Hanzo that he had no discernible authority over the room. Everyone was captured by the mature insight, the "wisdom" of the eldest figures. “Surely you recognize that it must be this way? Genji has proved time and time again that his judgement is faulty. He is too wild, too unpredictable. Dangerous to all we stand for. This calls for severe action— action that you must be ready and willing to take as our leader. Immediately.”

Not so quiet nods followed, important figures who had all relished themselves as being loyal to his family insisted then that he go against his own. He was his Father’s son, and his Father would have never been asked to…

“I cannot do such a thing.” Hanzo refused immediately, disbelief running wildly through him, searching the room for a face that matched how he felt— met only with unsympathetic, detached expressions. A sickness collected in the air— these people were supposed to protect his family, not drive it apart.

“You will do it,” the Elder grunted with finality, intolerably grim. _You will not disobey us, too._

And if he had not been bound to the clan, if he had not been born under the right to lead it, if it did not course in his very arteries and veins, he would have refused.

Others had been sent earlier to collect Claw, who was gone by the time Hanzo had stepped into the courtyard. For all the doubt he had felt before, the red staining provided enough crude evidence to solidify all that he was told.

Moving in with another draft of wind, he found his brother collected on the floor inside the castle. Metallic neutrality contained his voice, mostly, but Genji had known Hanzo too well to feel something was different.

“Why did they send _you_?” Genji asked quietly, not yet moving, releasing Hanzo of the burden of speaking first.

“I cannot answer that. It is the will of the clan, not my own.” As if to say— _you know I am not here by my own free will._

“What did they ask of you, _brother_?” Spite rose in Genji's voice, a sudden crescendo. He had begun to understand that he hadn’t correctly assessed what would happen. His fingers flexed, his back straightened, head no longer resting over his body but alert. “What have you come here to do?”

The wind whispered again and Hanzo’s jaw set as his hair swayed about his face. He refused to say it but not speaking was all the communication required. It was there, it was known. Shimada Castle itself disowned Genji inside the stark recognition that hit him like a rivet of lightening and widened his eyes: _My brother is here to kill me._

“Hanzo, you can’t…” _—be serious. You can’t do this._

“It is my duty.” Solemnly, Hanzo spoke, but not without resentfulness. Unable to continue to stare at his bother and watch how the severity of the moment seeped in, his gaze shifted to the mural and his own projection of helplessness interpreting a frantic look about the dragons.

Genji rose, at last, turning into his brother’s alarmed stare for the splatter of Claw’s blood across his face— only to mirror surprise finding how heavily armed his brother had been. Both sword and bow.

“So this is about _honour_? Hanzo, he had a knife to her throat, a gun pointed to her head! He would have killed her!” Genji insisted, desperately, his voice strained and raw. The words ran into each other, rushing his mouth as quickly as his brain. “I had no choice. I knew what he intended to do, I had to stop him— just as you should have stopped them!”

Hanzo was silent.

"How could you let it come to this?"

“Genji!” Hanzo snapped— scolding, always, but his voice caved in immediately after.

"Even though you say my name, you cannot see who you’re talking to." Genji spoke, becoming increasingly spiteful. “You’ll listen to them, but not me— your brother?”

The accusation forced Hanzo to turn his face away in unspoken ridicule. _I needed your help. All along. You were never interested._ A consuming pause, before he began again with fracture. “You turned your back on me first, before any of this.” _If you had only listened, it would be different…_

The brittle reminder of Hanzo’s search for direction and advice; twenty-eight was far too young to manage the empire alone. “You didn’t need me. You could handle it.” Inside, viscerally, his climbing heart rate saying differently, _I’m sorry I abandoned you._

But— the time to say it was never once it was too late and a crushing silence overtook the castle chamber.

Hanzo drew his sword. His palm curled tightly around the royal blue silk wrapping of the handle, feeling it there but wishing he hadn’t. “They will not be satisfied until I can prove I am fit to be our Father’s successor.”

Another pause.

Recognizing hollowness once more in _anything_ that could have been said, the remainder of Genji’s remaining concern was voiced.

“What about—“

“She is their concern no longer.” _They care not if she lives or dies with you._

Drawing his own sword, sharply aware of everything around him, Genji conceded.

“Then there is nothing left for us to say. _This_ is all that’s left, isn't it,  _brother_?” 

The blood-dirtied blade shocked Hanzo once again. He took a great and terrible swing, with all his force behind it, but Genji only stepped around it. The momentum of his swing carried him into in the altar, the mural at his back.

“I do what I must.” A flicker of fury in Hanzo, for what Genji had done and for always being so careless and impulsive; the residual bitterness from looking out for his younger bother when it was hardly reciprocated— never when it mattered. _I have done what I must and you only as you pleased._

Another impressive swing forced Genji to make a wide, sweeping arc in defense. Both could feel the contact of the blades in their bones but neither noticed, not then, the mark left on the scroll. The cut, the transfer of blood.

They were helpless to relive familiarity from all the times they had sparred, from how they had grown to anticipate the other’s moves, how it had been like that since the very first time they trained together. Hanzo, trying to exploit his brother’s obvious weaknesses, knowing them well; all the flaws in his stance, the smug over-confidence, his blind spots. Even still, with all the unforgiving lashes, Genji had been purely buying time and denied any offensive maneuvers. Hanzo understood all too well what his brother’s intention had been, feeling the deflection in his downward cuts, slipping through his fingers like water.

“ _Fight_.” He commanded, irritated that even after all the time that had passed, Genji had still only been stalling. “Fight back!”

“I won’t fight you, _brother_.” Almost sly, his brow arching into the words between short breaths of exertion from blocking each charged swing.

“Then you will die.” Not without self-ridicule, not without the taste of what the warning had meant. 

In passive recognition, still audaciously dipping his toes in the possibility that his brother wouldn’t be able to _do it_ in the end, “You have to hit me first.”

Of course, it was easier to believe that the swords were made of bamboo, that it was still possible to place the weapons down at their sides and end the spar with a bow, a nod of respect. _“You are improving, Genji. I wish you would train more…” “Well, thanks anyways. I suppose you weren’t complete shit today either, Hanzo. But there’s always tomorrow.”_

They moved and with Genji’s arm weakening, he began relying on the environment to recoup as much stamina as he could. Hanzo kept pushing, allowing both brothers to be ejected back into the courtyard while leaving a telling path of marred walls and wooden beams. He kept pushing, insisting either a fair fight or a fatal hit.

Still engaged in a one-sided battle, they returned to the first compound of the zen garden and copper bell. The moon was high and full but still darted behind clouds in fear of death.

Genji, between heavy panting, shouted suddenly as his unarmed hand gestured, pressed tightly to his chest, “Hanzo, have you forgotten who I am?” _Don’t you recognize me? Can’t you see me?_ “Open your eyes!”

Hanzo tried to focus, the moonlight provoking. Wind stirred and scattered the last of the molted petals in great clouds behind him. “Genji, have you forgotten _what we are_?”

It was then when blue ghostly wisps built up around him, coming off of his body like steam. His skin was hot. The dual faces, turning and spiraling, in a weak helix, over Hanzo’s sword arm, over his body. 

 _Never._ Genji’s mouth turned in recognition; the smirk of the youngest Shimada echoed over the compound as identical manifestations took over him as well, only igniting in a brilliant green.

Hanzo, fully possessed by the dual dragon faces, drove his sword— not forward— but into the planks beneath his feet. Though it didn’t need answering, though it was there around them in the grounds of their ancestors, Hanzo’s voice boomed, “We are Shimada.” _We are the same._

Knowingly, Genji mirrored his brother, also removing his sword from the possibility of combat, guiding it into the sheath slung over his back.

The brothers recognized each other. The dragons recognized each other, from their distance too; marbled, sad eyes full of all the emotions the brothers refused to show each other.

From the compound that flanked the bell, a small group of bodies emerged. The Elders had come to personally see Hanzo fulfill his obligation. He felt the entire weight of the clan on his shoulders return, it being temporarily offset by the shared silence.

There was a part of him that would rather turn the sword on himself but as he rolled his head forward on his neck, he sharpened and refocused. _I have to… I have to…._

Hanzo, wrenching his sword from the ground again, charged.

But Genji anticipated his rash movement, feeling the silent encouragement and the weight of the Elder’s eyes burning over him. He anticipated that there would be no more success in deflecting, that their presence had lent stringency to the moment that had otherwise been missing. That death was not far behind.

Licked by the flame, the spark of green, Genji summoned with his body taken by the wraithlike dragon that wound around him, _“Ryuujin no ken wo kurae—!“_

Before the swords could crash together in impact, the vaporous dragons burst forward. They twisted over each other, with the divine innocence of fish swimming in a tank. Their whiskers touched, as green and blue mingled, before separating and pulling away. 

They refused to cause harm to the other.

The swords met in delayed impact and scattered in opposite directions, sending Hanzo’s into the gravel while Genji’s over the planks.

Before either could recollect theirs— Hanzo had already lifted the bow from off his back and mounted an arrow. He tried to not let the look on his brother’s face break his concentration. _If you reach for your sword, I will be forced to shoot you._

Knowing then that the arrow could pierce him at any moment, that he would not be spared and forced to shoot regardless, Genji ran for cover as his movements were closely shadowed. The arrow knew its target but protested as Hanzo aimed past his brother. He drew the string— the tremendous, impossible weight of it— and let go, hitting the ground by his brother’s feet.

The arrow scattered instantaneously upon impact, first caging Genji in ribbons of blue, then as the arrows jumped around the structure and back, piercing his flesh. The surprise, of multiple different stakes through his body at once, ripped through the courtyard in a mangled, bloody scream. 

Mutilated, with his face and limbs cut and scratched, he backed away absently, looking to his forearms and hands at the onslaught of arrow fragments and openings that leaked and stung. Hanzo watched his bother, spine crushed against the bell and fighting to stand even though the injury had since reduced him into a shaking mess. He let out another cry as both hands moved to his face, feeling the cuts over the surface. Secondary then, as his hands lowered, the impact of one of the arrow’s projectiles through his neck; the pain was far from precise.

The Elders watched all this approvingly, as if murder was a cheap curiosity for their entertainment.

 _It was not supposed to be like this. Never like this. If our Father were still here…_ But their Father was another wound. He would be watching, wherever he was, surely. He would have seen what happened.

He loaded his bow again, giving his dominion over to his training, all the times he had practiced with the straw mannequins.

Another scream, instantaneous, as the arrow burrowed deeply within his chest. Looking down at the shaft, Genji weakly grasped a hand around it but his fingers ineffectually slipped off as he tried to pull it out. The fatal shot had been missed, Genji’s heart a mere centimeters away from the arrowhead.

Even Hanzo was undecided if it was intentional.

Washed in the opaque look of pain, of sweat, tears, and blood, Genji's gaze darted from his own injuries to his brother as he advanced, watching as Hanzo picked his sword up from the gravel as he shuddered mercilessly.

The pain in his eyes had only been a suggestion. His body had loosened under it, as if his very bones had softened. He felt his blood’s temperature dropping if only by the numerous openings. The wounds missed every vital organ; they only slowed him, only tore through his threshold. Pain was abstract, no longer distinguishable, just there. The only sure and constant thing left.

_Ah… ahh…… hnnn………_

Writhing, his chin turning away but still managing to keep his eye locked on his brother, Genji grit his teeth.

Hanzo felt his body move. The tip of the blade had hit the bell behind it; a weak somber ring filled the air. He knew he had done it.

The sword had impaled his brother’s chest.

Hanzo, disgusted, pulled the blade back, then the arrow— as if taking them out could undo what he had done but only watched as it merely allowed the blood to quicken, rushing and flowing, desiring the surrounding night.

Genji choked, looking down at the gouge in his armor, at his stained white linen, all broken. He neatly sank down to his knees, as if a gesture of complete worship, falling into pulsing darkness. “B-brother…” Pressing his hands over the wounds in his chest, the incomplete crushing sound of his growing frailty. Choking on _why_ , on _how_ , saliva and blood falling from his lips. He sat on the very border of inarticulacy; speech being sloppy, requiring more effort than was available anymore. 

Dying was slow, like it resisted taking him even as his life was released and left him in chokes and gasps. There was so much time ahead of him that shifted under the brothers then, for all the years that had been lost in the mere moments before. The infuriatingly incomplete but desperate thought of you, by Genji— not being able to hold you, promising to return when he knew wiser.

 _What have I done?_ Hanzo’s pupils reduced, strained, as his conscious bloomed and thrashed. He knew nature’s sureties, the vague shapes of loss and death, but had not been prepared for its tailored presence as it closed in on the two of them.

Sadly then, the petals turned. 

His sword dropped with a dolent echo. Hanzo felt  _sorry_ charge his dry throat, over and over.

He shut his eyes but blindly reached out after sinking to his knees alongside Genji, he felt the wood dampened, like after rainfall, on his shins. Hanzo tugged his collar, pulling his dying brother’s body into his lap. _Do not leave me, not yet..._ The illogical begging, pleading— knowing it would happen, knowing that it was an unequivocally meaningless request.

He couldn’t look down but pulled his brother higher, sitting Genji up against him. In vain, he ineffectually pressed down on the major wounds of his bother's torso. He felt the inevitable slowing of his breathing, the quieter and quieter sounds of agony. He felt a sad trickle of blood, the disturbing wetness rush up and over his fingers.

He turned his face up, in the mournful, lavender summer night, and stared up at the moon with tears streaming down his face.

The night exhaled with Genji and everything became cold.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in the same night, under the naked constellations that had been witness to all the blood, Claw was under heavy sedation, nodding into and out of consciousness in a hospital bed with sterile, crisp sheets. Somewhere in the same night, the young suit was on the phone with his mother, borderline hysterical and wrecked each time she asked him why he was so upset. Somewhere in the same night, the Elders with their glasses full and raised, made lengthy toasts of victory and prosperity. Somewhere in the same night, Hanzo, inconsolable, strangulated by his self-made loneliness and shifting with the new constrictions around his lungs for what he had done.

Somewhere in the same night was the end of all things as you had come to know them. But, as you had once been told, life and death in eternal compliment of one another and bound to a circular motion, it had also been the start of something else.

Life moved on— loss was just the preparation of greater change. 

That same night, you had not had the realization that he had passed. No telepathic jolt or feeling, entirely numb to the recognition. No one moment where you looked up in the oil pastel firmament and thought, _he’s gone now_. Instead, you felt the opposite. You clung to Genji’s words and thinking otherwise was unacceptable. _He’ll come back to me. He has to_.

You fell into a dreamless sleep, eventually, on a pillow wet from tears. You woke up feeling raw, picked by vultures as you slept.

You reached for your phone to try calling him, decided you shouldn’t, then subjected yourself to the conversation history that you had not yet had the heart to delete. His overuse of the dragon and wink emojis. Green and yellow hearts. Bowls of ramen. You read a message with a timestamp from weeks ago: _“You’re not missing much here but Hanamura misses you. I miss you too.”_

You pushed the phone into a drawer— had to— before getting washed up.

_I’ll call him. Later. Not now._

You had gone to grab a drink at the café, finding something like alleviation in your usual order and being surrounded by people, the hopelessly normal scene of late-morning city bustle. You were helpless to stare out the large windowsill you were flanked by, watching still, the streams of people a comforting mechanism. 

Until, of course, Taiyaki appeared directly in your line of sight— tinted sunglasses and all, his back as straight as a board.

There was a moment of silent recognition between you, brief but palpable. A part of you was even strangely comforted by his presence. To you, his occurrence had signified something— some update on the situation, instruction or direction. He tolerated waiting without signaling you to come out, all without approaching the café or even straying from his position, with his hands folded behind his back. You surveyed him from over the cup and he endured it.

Leaving the café at long last, after pushing the door open and stepping out into the warm, early heat of the day, you advanced him. He remained stationary but pulled his sunglasses down his nose in recognition that he had indeed been waiting for you.

“I thought we were over all this,” you said, surprising yourself with a tone that could almost come off as playful. You specifically remembered him at the table after you had so boldly stepped into Shimada territory.

He didn’t say anything, not at first. The two of you looked at each other with comprehensively different awarenesses about the same moment. You tried understanding him, you tried reading his face— his slow blink and an exhale of palpable exhaustion. The past night had been long for everyone yet the day continued with people’s shopping bags bushing past you on the sidewalk, the smell of octopus and squid being fried by street food vendors in the ignition of summer.

From behind his back, Taiyaki produced a parcel entirely surrounded in plain black fabric— for you to take, as indicated by the look just barely accessible from the tilt of his shades.

“Sorry.” He said before a slight dip of his head; not deeply, but enough that even as you had not taken your eyes off the parcel, you noticed. 

"Sorry?" You echoed.

He withdrew, stoic and even, turning away from you without saying anything more. You understood then and there that calling out after him would have been devoutly useless, that he wouldn’t stop even if you did, that he didn't owe you anything and _visa versa_. You knew he had done was the extent of what he was sent for— save for the half-bow. That had been a curious and gratuitous addition; even after everything, Taiyaki had not been above whatever impulse fired.

You swallowed harshly, losing him to the street corner.

A soft heat burned in your palms. You had known on sight what the parcel was by the obvious dimensions and then by its weight in your hands; the recognition brought no comfort, and in its place, a terrible not in your stomach. You felt your brain become fuzzy— felt the world evaporate. Pulling the thing free of the wrapping, your suspicions were confirmed: Genji’s book had found its way back to you. You turned it over before opening the front cover and finding a letter that had been tucked away in what you had correctly assumed to be in Hanzo’s handwriting.

The black ink read:

_Genji would want you to have this._


	12. Full Circle

_I’m still looking for you._

Dying of boredom, again, hanging over bar countertops. Absent.

Your friends encouraged you to _live_. You had resisted for the longest time to do much of anything. Their requirements, _just come out and have a good time_ , like a useless prescription. The nights were empty, on the surface and in the hours beneath. Your sadness— long since active, left you sullen— present in everything, in your unreadable stares and your looks of generous apathy towards anyone who approached you. Never feeling satisfied was a curse he left you with and you felt it in abundance. Of course, there had been no shortage of objectively attractive-looking people in the city, sure, but none of them were _him_ and so none of them, by association, were enough.

The space in you, the enduring hollowness in your chest, denied room for any of their faces or names. _“It’s not you, it’s me.”_ Became your autograph, along with leaving the clubs early and canceling plans at the last moment.

But a year ago, to the very day, you had fled Hanamura and life had forever changed. An entire year had passed full of… _what exactly, aside from your friend’s attempts at rescue?_ There had been an agonizingly blank summer that shuffled gawkily into an equally empty autumn? Then winter, harsh and unforgiving, a transitory liberation in the naked branches it brought as the only cherry blossom to survive had been pressed between the pages of Genji’s book.

But you lived, and lived yet through spring when it returned. Spring being the most painful season, being sudden and swift. Spring being particularly hard, where a restful night was far and few in between. You stayed up for him, anticipation to the point of delusion that he might have still shown up at your front door with his tie undone, looking at you with eyes that asked to go right to your bed.

But summer had taken over spring and you endured an entire year of managing, bearing it only because you had no other choice but to. Grief piqued in so many things, as if it too had been preserved between pages; _“I’ll always be with you”_ — yes, but in the most intolerable ways. So much of life had been stained by his loss. Even simple things, the seemingly unavoidable, dared to remind you of him. Ramen had been left inedible. Then there were certain shades of green, _his_ green and all hues that approached it or the sparrows, as they perched along park benches. Worse yet, you mourned for the petals as they came loose of the trees, the physical evidence that time passed. _Was passing_. Would keep going on without him and would continue to carry you further and further away from his memory until you forgot how he would arch his brow or give you the devious half-smile.

Time was ruthless for forcing you to heal.

Inevitably, there were days were the space between when you _had_ and _hadn’t_ thought of him were so vast that coming back to his memory was jarring. Depending on the day, you were caught between wanting to remember and wanting to let him go. _Don’t forget, you can’t forget—_ as if it was your choice to begin with.

The noble illustrated dragon no longer scratched and ticked as it once did. The day Taiyaki had brought it back was the day its sleep began. You even longed for the paranoia, _sadness is honest but never logical_ , to wake in the night and hear the flutter of life between the pages, believing some deep connection between _it_ and _him_. You were disappointed 364 nights in a row.

But, that night then, a year ago to the very day of his death, with the return of early summer and the graceful, dainty pastel nights full of misty violets and glistening champagne stars, you had you brought the book out once more from its place on the shelf. The book dropped open in your hand to the very page, with the blossom still preserved and the green dragon coiled about, ink just as vibrant as ever. You could feel your face, the very instant you focused, become hot and overfull.

And because you knew you would have been stuck thinking about him regardless of where you were, whether you were loaded to the brim with drinks at a bar counter or sitting alone cocooned in a blanket, you would do neither.

You would go to him.

Hanamura, not without the lingering smell of miso and egg noodles, not without the web of streets and the distinct sudden replay of each moment in each place. You felt the tears but tried to smile, tried to accept it. Nostalgia hit you, winded you, having momentarily forgotten that a year had passed and so much happened. You combated a broken, stifled sob with the back of your hand, dragging it under your eyes and furiously blinking.

_Why haven’t you come back to me?_

With Rikimaru and 16-Bit Hero both shut for the night and the streets only thinly stretched with people, you had no options for distraction. You pressed onward to the castle with purpose, only to find the wooden gates had been shut. A sign, one that had not been there previously when the gates had been left open, was nailed to the middle pillar and stated _no trespassing_.

Without another plan, only the suggestion that it had been the influence of either _luck_ or _fate_ , you sat adjacent to the barrier on Rikimaru’s back step and watched the carved, coiled dragons, unwilling to leave. Lonely as it was, or should have been, you remained as you were, threading into and out of the moment all until a sound rose from ahead of you. There had been sudden, muffled shouting and indistinct sounds of panic all from behind the dense timber entrance.

Miraculously, the gate groaned, pulled open from the inside. You froze and sat still. A small group of suits hobbled out, one slung between two of the other’s shoulders. None of them had appeared to be irreversibly injured, only riled up.

You watched, speechless, as they breezed by you. _I’m getting out of here. Wait for me!_ For all of the attention they paid to you, you could have been part of the concrete you sat on.

Another act of chance, no one had stopped to close the gate. There it was, ahead of you, propped open. Calling you.

You gave your curiosity a only a moment to weigh out your next move. You decided, if there was someone or thing inside the grounds that had a grudge against the suits, then they were on your side. And while you could have attributed your drive to that alone, it was also in part due to the monotony you had settled into. Your reckless decision made the blood flow, made your skin alert to the temperate air, made living a little less like a chore. So there you went, looking over your shoulder for some invisible threat on the empty street, before slipping through.

Crossing into the grounds, you stood taller, straighter— just as he once had.

 _God, has it always been so beautiful?_  

Nothing had changed, like a ceramic figure preserved in a China cabinet, save for the blood that had been strenuously buffed out of the wood. The only red left was the sanguine lacquered wood in all directions. The gravel of the zen garden was without blemish, the artificial waves harmonious and stones glowing under the early summer moonbeams. It denied all previous ugliness, all the actions that had kept you from visiting. There was something like shame in you then for not having done it justice in your mind— for always picturing it differently, for trying to make it into something repulsive.

You felt something inside, the space in you that anticipated ache as you mapped out your last memory— _he was standing right there and I stood here_ — but the ache never fully came back. It was softened, numbed. You stood in the spot and looked around, breathless for a moment as you turned your gaze towards the castle. It peaked out from a mantle of soft, blushing petals, more extraordinary, however unfair, than before.

When you had finally begun moving again, walking through the trees that stretched their limbs, petals loosened and became caught in your hair while others peppered your shoulders. A gentle indulgence about it then, as you moved, lavished by consolatory beauty. Again, a stretch to think, but the petals dripping off the trees were less like the reminder of time’s brutal passing and more like a _welcome back_ in their own silent way.

Approaching Shimada Castle, you were surprised to feel the weight of another person with you as you closed in. Still, foolishly, you looked him then. _Genji?_ Hope was devastating but you still felt it flare up, ignorance about rationality. You turned around, fully expecting to see him for every time he had successfully appeared or disappeared without a sound— revealing nothing.

You carried on.

Clearing the courtyard and peering into the open frame of the castle’s entrance, you noticed a person kneeling before the giant altar. Incense turned though the air as it burned, delicately masking the antiqued smell of its interior with cloves and patchouli.

As you approached, the person with their back to you tensed. Their aura turned unreceptive— but only until they saw it was you by a swift turn of their head, surveying you from over their shoulder. On sight, they had understood that you weren’t about to cause harm, that you weren’t associated with the previous company.

“Hanzo?”

It was strange to see a face with so many similarities to the one you were afraid of forgetting. Stranger still that he had stopped existing the same time that Genji had, that you hadn’t heard from him since the letter. And in his absence, he had changed much about his appearance; his hair was tied up tightly with the sides neatly shaved, in austere contrast to the scruff on his face. 

He said nothing until he had returned to his feet. You fell into strained small-talk in recognition, both avoiding eye-contact— “It’s been awhile.” _“It has.”_ “You look different.” _“Yes, I know.”—_ but Hanzo had a difficult time keeping in character, answering only after the silences deepened, which made you feel as if your presence was a blunt intrusion in his mourning. You insisted that you hadn't meant to impose and that you would leave to allow him privacy, only to have him refuse.

He was adamant that you stayed— maintaining anguished eye-contact, briefly. “This— is a difficult night to be alone on.”

Your exact thoughts. You imagined the poor soul that you’d be pouring your heart out to had you chosen a bar instead. You couldn't help but imagine briefly what Hanzo’s alternatives would have been if not you. You couldn’t imagine Claw, if he survived, being sympathetic.

Between long, distended silences, you both spoke slowly and only with intention. After a thoughtful, though uncomfortable gap, as you both stood facing the altar and the defaced scroll, Hanzo admitted, “I— I left it all behind…”

You turned, watched his jaw clench and his throat in a swallow. The words were still raw for him. You imagined the friction it must have caused for him to abandon them. “They let you?” _Just like that?_

He turned his gaze then. His kholed eyes were sleepless, haunted. “I did so without their permission,” then almost in the same breath, “Have they made any trouble for you—?“

Just as quickly, you responded, “Not at all. I’ve seen people _in suits_ but no _suits_.” You had meant for it to be light-hearted but he only nodded to himself and turned away. You could have sworn he mumbled _“good”_ but couldn’t be certain.

“That night… I was not able to find him."

The incense fell in your sights as your eyes edged over the ground, waiting for him to continue.

“I—“ Embarrassment? Hanzo took in a breath, pressed his heel into the tatami then looked up over the ceiling, “I had not told him you would be here.”

Breaking a whisper, but only just, you asked, “What do you mean?” _How was that possible? He showed up at just the right time._

Reluctant, or uncomfortable, he shifted his weight where he stood. “What I mean is that… He knew where you were, where you would be.”

_Genji, were you following me?_

You stifled a sound, a weak laugh, a strange rushing feeling thinking back to that night and how badly you wished he was close. How he was close, closer than you thought. Had he seen you confront the young suit, had he seen you willingly walk into the bar? Had he known how determined you were to find him, as you told yourself you weren't? Then all too much like the first breath after a high dive, after breaking the immense surface tension, you wondered if in all the time you had been alone in the days before his passing, had he been there? Just outside the window you had left open?

Hanzo must have assumed the sound you made was from you beginning to cry; he stood solemnly, but then for comfort, moved to press the flat of his palm to your shoulder. Not like him, not at all, but you quickly decided since he had been so removed from how you had remembered him, that maybe it was the correct action for who he had become.

You smiled then. Fully. _I’m not crying, but thanks. Oh—_ But, the itself touch had spurred tears. You smile widened before they really started falling.  _Oh, you’re good._

You both looked towards the ground, under the mural of the dragons twisting over each other and the smoldering incense nearly burnt out. You had both become quiet again, perhaps in your search to say something important to say to the other.

“Can I ask you something?” You dared, folding your arms across yourself.

“Yes,” he answered, gruffly, but then pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had spoken before considering just what you might ask. As if there were things he would not be prepared to answer.

“What _happened_ to him?”

Hanzo froze. Came back to life only to press a hand over his scalp, over his hair, securing a fistful of it. The signature appearance of someone in the middle of a crisis.

 _Wrong question._ “I’m sorry I just—“

“Do not apologize.”

You stuttered after, “I don’t think I would feel better knowing but—“ _But I just know that it happened and it wasn’t in the newspapers and I couldn’t get the information online and apparently Shimada Genji has never existed before or all mentions or records of him were deleted and…_

He inhaled deeply, “They had decided his fate while I was looking for him—“

_Oh._

Shame in you then, for connecting your task for Hanzo to Genji’s death. Shame in him then, among everything else, for what he had done with the ōdachi.

Hanzo’s voice had been stable, but being so close, you could see his eyes looked glazed. The very first of tears, maybe. “I wish it were different. I should have said something, done something…”

Another gap.

You looked away which was all the privacy you could afford as you stood shoulder to shoulder. You decided to instead become visually occupied with the mural. “He told me their story.”

A hum. Not of reproach, only in faint interest. You gave him the time to replay the story in his mind, to run his eyes over the mural, to count the scales, to return to himself.

“You know,” you paused, gathering an unrehearsed emphasis, “Genji believed the dragons would forgive each other in the end.” 

Hanzo, as if you had stripped naked, stared. His chest seized, visibly, his fingers curled to his palms. You suddenly weren’t sure if it had been the right thing to say by his reaction. How were you to know the tremendous weight of guilt he lived under, how were you to know exactly what that had meant? He turned away from you, exhausting his entire being to keep from crying. You hoped offering the insight would set him at ease, but he only twisted under it, only looked further pained.

You took it as your signal to go.

You explained that you had a train to catch, that he was kind to let you stay but it was time to head back. Before you could leave, he pulled you into his arms. The contact wasn’t for your sake, it was evident that there was something wrong inside of him but you could do nothing for him— feeling him in pieces against your body, feeling your shared sense of loss.

“Will I see you around?”

He pulled away, eyebrows narrowed. “ _Hmm_.”

_Well, that’s not exactly a yes or a no._

He called out, softly, afterward: “Stay safe.”

Nodding, you returned the sentiment, “you too,” before leaving the castle behind.

 

 

You didn’t remember leaving the book out on your coffee table, affronted with the view of it clearly as soon as you opened your apartment door. The night's gentle wind caused ripples along the pages, but it was opened still to the preserved blossom and dragon as if held down by an imaginary paperweight. You moved over to it, gently turning one end over the other to shut it.

Your attention shifted to the balcony, opened as it had been. The soothing, temperate draft was hardly an intrusion or cause for a second-thought— except, you hadn’t recalled leaving it open either. In turning from the book to the glass, you let out a small gasp of surprise to yourself before curiosity guided you, pulled you.

_Are those petals?_

Sure enough, as you slid the balcony door back, the dusting like a first-snowfall of blossoms over the concrete floor. You looked suspiciously, knowing that you were too high up for it to have happened naturally but dismissed it all, having no further apparent explanation. You had spent a year avoiding them only to find them _en masse_ , at your feet, dreamily shifting about. _Strange how it works._ But all things considering, a harmless surprise all the same.

You moved towards the ledge just enough to lean against it, to gaze out over the perpetually awake city beneath as it charmed you with twinkling, streaming headlights and neon while the pinpricks of stars still burned softly overhead. You considered if there had ever a time Genji could hear you, it would be then in the mysterious incidence of the petals. You had so much to tell him, but as you opened your mouth, you felt the silence of night swirl around you.

_I suppose I'll always miss you._

You let yourself— then, in that very moment— detach from the idea that he would return. That talking to Hanzo at Shimada Castle, the smell of incense still vividly in your nose, was confirmation enough. His brother's bereavement had made you aware of your own bad habits— waiting up at night for someone that could never come back to you.

And as the wind told you to wait to be patient and look out just a moment longer, defeat told you it had been a long year and it was finally time to rest. You moved to retrace your steps, pressing a hand on the sliding glass door to go back inside. It was then when you saw a disturbance over the moon’s reflection in the pane. You turned back around. 

First he was an arm of synthetic tawny browns under grey and alabaster white. Awareness shifted— a torso, a neck, an entire body— full and complete— pulsing, gentle green light— all framed by the moonlight.

Then, he was a voice. Spiked with electric softness, bending the lilac night.

“Evening.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thank you to the all readers who kept me motivated and enjoyed (or at times— hated) what I had to say.](https://my-ultimate-is-ready.tumblr.com)   
> 


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